Death, all full of holes, and horns of its own undoing, treads beneath a bull's skin and grazes on a shining bullfight meadow.
In volcanic roars and savage pride it flares, with a universal love for all that's born, while killing the tranquil cowboys.
Now you may, you loving hungry beast, graze upon my heart, a tragic grass, if you like the bitterness of its essence.
A love towards everything tortures me, as it does you, and my heart dressed like a corpse spills out towards everything.
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