They look out from the terrace.
At the borders of sight
live rocky hills behind brown
and golden and olive crop
under a cloudless sky.
Sun beams brighten motley roofs
on tessellations which blacken beige
in blurry air.
BANG!
An artificial cloud.
“Look,” she points, “Let’s go!”
She takes him and they fly down stairs,
diving like sparrows
into the street.
Boys sprint across pavements and climb;
men vault over fences in time
for news to reach ears.
“They’re coming!
"¡Ya vienen!"
Excitement and fear.
The rattling of cow bells
and galloping nears.
Men bait and dodge horns
and escape through doors
and up and over
red wooden bars.
Sticks beat on the concrete ground
and drive the mute beasts's sounds.
Seconds away –
until the last,
he side steps into a house;
indoors,
apart,
he runs through the foyer
and up the stairs
around a corner.
Long strides
too fast to follow.
She chooses left and
sings soprano
when doors won't budge
and
a
beast
crashed
in.
She turns and the fear is paralysing.
"FERMIN!"
He hurdles the stares
and explodes
when it rams her
to and fro,
thrashing her head
against the wall
where horns
sin and gore
cement and brick.
He clasps the tail
and heaves its hide from
side to side as
hooves smash
crates of wine -
they slip and slide
in fractured glass,
he finds a horn
and yanks the head!
He's yanked instead
half dead before the men
arrive down stairs
to punch and kick it;
strike and stick it
smack and hit it;
'til it
fits and quits
and flees the foyer,
fast and frantic,
flying flustered
by the frenzy,
finally finding
pattering
pavement
It
peters
off
into
the
street.
"¿Que ha pasado?
¿Quien ha sido?
¡El Balbotin
y la Chicha!
¡Que una vaca
les ha pillado!"
Hands bleed
and flesh breathes.
"¿Estas bien?"
Dizzy, she tends to him
with searching hands,
and scolding words.
"Podria haber sido peor"
This poem is about an incident which happened to my Grandparents, Fermin Yanguas Ochoa and Raimunda Ramos Frias.
It was during a bull run in their village (Fitero) in Navarra, Northern Spain. 1972