The rain has hit on my windows with great force
Like the horns of bulls toss bloody matadors
The Spanish rites acquaint us with our lacks
For in the end we by a horse are dragged
The bull is strong with open fearsome eyes
But in the end it is the bull that dies
Helplessly he runs and he rotates
Strength and helplessness are not good mates
The matador takes risks to taunt the beast
From a snack he makes us a great feast
Better to be eaten by a man
Than make a meal for worms when death has come
Men may claim they’re strong and great and pure
In the end it’s wits that have most power
How my heart sings 