Over the small fence, a dark bull does gaze.
A field of green. The breath of God.
You are the child in its eye,
hooded and black
under the unforgiving light of day.

O animal of the youth, beaten and weak,
you are gold in the depths of paradise
and when you breathe, the air doth sting.

Pray, you who may know,
tell me,
what of innocence?
Does the flower wither with time,
or is it eaten by the hungry sheep?
So fragile its stem, so small its leaf;
the velvet petal who falls
and hides amongst the blades.
Survivor, escapist. Alive through day dreams.
Alas.
The moon brings death with it
and under the quiet gaze of her,
sleeps the velvet petal,
lulled by the sweet song of end.
Once whole and well. Now dry and gone.
Tell me,
you who may know,
where hunts the wolf
on the day such tragedy strikes?

A field of green.
The breath of God.

Yes, how awful, how cruel;
how deep the wound.
But more unfortunate yet,
that your heart be the home of so many.

And here, a tree of flames, a sun that sings.
A sea vast and green, and its sister above,
dressed in cloudless blue.
Coquí, coquí, the frog chirps into the night.

How beautiful this land,
how loud its rooster screams.

Death places its hand on your shoulder.

The bull curses you in silence.