8 seconds. You think to tame him,
but what of me? If only this were 800 meters
of folly and cheap thrill on cobbled stone.
But your crimson chaps scream,
“I am the Matador!” and the crowd cheers.
Hold tightly, mi torero. One false step
and fate may gore more than your thirst for fame.
Time stops when the buzzer sounds.
Time stands still for tortured hearts.
Your chute opens and I am lost
to a frenzy of flying fringe. Hold tightly,
mi torero. 8 seconds. An eternity.
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