For the love of a bullfighter, she sings A
old songs about spilling red wine and blood,
restless, young men in the corrida die...
The matador survives for what he brings,
he brings bittersweet love and brutal death,
estocada, sword to the heart, no good...
Lest he not hear the crowd, their roar, they cry
out in fear should this be his final breath;
victims of poverty know the bull well,
even the rich desire this brutal hell.
Of courage that befalls the fearless, brave
fool who enters a pact with God to live
A life without dilemma, noble, pure...
Between the horns of the devil, we crave
untold riches, luxury, wealth and fame;
left to the lucky few who work to give
lovers and friends their thanks but to endure
ferocious beasts, sweating, tired, hungry,
intent on survival, the need to maim
glorified toreros, killers of bulls;
honor adores the bold, worships the sword,
terror in the round, gravel, sand, life pulls
elastic puppet strings, one severed cord,
red blood splashes this color blind country.
She sings old songs of Spain, at the refrain,
he hears his name and knows where he will sleep,
encounters with women, always fair game...
She seeks his love, yet with nothing to gain
in public acceptance, he may forgo
needless suffering, death makes women weep,
given his winnings, he shares in no shame,
she'll never speak of their child's birth, such pain.
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