Six bulls I saw as black as jet, <br />With crimsoned horns and amber eyes <br />That chewed their cud without a fret, <br />And swished to brush away the flies, <br />Unwitting their soon sacrifice. <br /> <br />It is the Corpus Christi fête; <br />Processions crowd the bannered ways; <br />Before the alters women wait, <br />While men unite in hymns of praise, <br />And children look with angel gaze. <br /> <br />The bulls know naught of holiness, <br />To pious pomp their eyes are blind; <br />Their brutish brains will never guess <br />The sordid passions of mankind: <br />Poor innocents, they wait resigned. <br /> <br />Till in a black room each is penned, <br />While from above with cruel aim <br />Two torturers with lances bend <br />To goad their fieriness to flame, <br />To devil them to play the game. <br /> <br />The red with rage and mad with fear <br />They charge into the roaring ring; <br />Against the mockery most near <br />Of human might their hate they fling, <br />In futile, blind blood-boltering. <br /> <br />And so the day of unction ends; <br />Six bulls are dragged across the sand. <br />Ferocity and worship blends, <br />Religion and red thirst hold hands . . . <br />Dear Christ! 'Tis hard to understand!<br /><br />Robert William Service<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-bulls/
