Classic Poem

In the middle of the battlefield, as the drum is beating,
tightly bound with its leather straps, covered with the unfinished skin
of the victor in a bull fight between two fine animals with horns
ending in sharp tips and streaked from their goring thrusts
into the mud, on that fierce field with a heart throbbing in shame
pierced through and through by a long spear hurled in fury,
swaying with blood. . . . . . . . . .around him
vultures crowd in so tightly, they leave
no room for anyone who might want to embrace his chest heaving blood.