Upon the forest floor,
bare sand, an ideal temperature reached,
I unclasp the capote de berga.
In the bullring of my adolescence
only pines like these
which I defy, can be,
those bitterest opponents,
still living with tipped black horns
I know will take a sensual act to rid myself of.
To this hot, levelled ruedo
they have not come.
I collect my costume and continue on.