Plaza de Toros

 Between the cries


Between the cries from crowds

In the football stadium

And from the bull ring 

We try to catch some fitful sleep

Unsure of which direction

The sound of life and passion 

Hijacks a summer evening

A Saturday in Salamanca 

In July nineteen seventy five. 


As novices we sleep in virgin bunks

Fifty to a dormitory 

Separated by chaste curtains

Boasting simple single beds and wash basins 

That can only spray cold water

For Baptismal showers every morning 

At five a.m.  when even revellers are home

And snoring off the noise of yesterday. 


Alone each one in lonely crib

Exiled from warmth of woman

Or smells of old -

Strangers in the harshest land

Further than the moon, because

There is no place on earth

This restless spirit can call home. 


Years that pass and yet the page

Will not turn over and belief

Is challenged to the core 

Reality seems to crush the mild

For time is mocking

Our every sacrifice 

For whom? For what?


Oh to join the mindless crowd

That chant at players on the pitch

Or scream at aging matadors

The sanity of useless things

The safety net of mediocrity

In flying towards the sun

We lost ourselves and everyone. 

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