Tarde de Fiesta

It's an August afternoon, the sun's blazing,
The day's punishing, a fire's raging.
In the yellow fields, there's not a soul,
Everyone's gone to the square and the sun, the sun's on a roll.
And the sun, the sun's on a roll.

Sun and shade in a standoff, sounds of a party,
Trumpets and clarions, someone’s praying hearty.
Colors ablaze, the beast is unleashed, the fight begins.
Afternoon of bullfights, August afternoon, celebration spins.

Capes in the wind, a slow-moving horse,
Needles piercing through, a wild course,
The muleta distracts in the final third while the crowd
Vibrates.
Afternoon of bullfights, August afternoon, celebration loud.

The bull's blood stains your sword,
A thousand white handkerchiefs wave in accord,
The crowd erupts in applause and olés,
But you still feel that horrible sensation
Of blood on your hands... that horrible sensation.

And you heard it bellow, fall to the ground,
Blood spewing, a certain kill, profound.
No longer more than a shadow, it fades away, and hundreds
Of roses and carnations come your way,
Come your way.
And you still feel that horrible sensation
Of blood on your hands.