The Fighting Bull Who Died Long Ago

A story of a fighting bull in Greater Liangshan

He stands there beneath the setting sundeathly stillhis old head droopingHis bodylike a reefgnawed at by ocean wavesHis scarred, stained hornslike wolves’ broken teeth

He stands there beneath the setting suntightly closinghis one remaining eyeignoring a swarm of fliescircling his skullignoring a swarm of gadfliescrawling over his faceNo one knows where his owner has gone

He stands there beneath the setting sunHe dreams of the prime of his lifeand remembers Torch Festival morningsHe seems to hear once more the horns of his head resoundHe seems to hear once more the distant mountain song from his  nostrilsHe seems to smell once more the bullfighting ringthat familiar, damp scentHe seems to feel once more that wild urgerising from the black landHe seems to feel once morethe currents of blood rushing through his bodyEach hair is hard as wireHe seems to hear once more people cheeringon the plains of summer sunlight,joyful, running, leapinglike one golden deer after the nextHe seems to see once more his young owner leading himwith red ribbons on his headIn the high hillshis horns are carryinga blood-red sun

He stands there beneath the setting sun,occasionally opening one eyeLooking at the old bullfighting ring,he cries out in sorrowand so his withered hideis more like a firefrantically burning there