—A story about fighting bulls in the Daliang Mountain Range (II)
"You can destroy him, but you can never beat him."
—Ernest Hemmingway
In the dead of the night
When all the folks are fast asleep
He lies in the bullpen, feeble and languishing,
Waiting for the descent of his fatal destiny
His eyes faintly open
Filled with woe and despair
But right at that moment he seems to hear
In the wilderness far away
At the former bullring which he knows so well
A young bull much stronger than he
Shouting and calling his long-forgotten name
In language foul and defiant
Poking fun at him, humiliating him, and scolding him;
Exactly at this moment he also feels
A wild impetus exploding inside him
So, he makes his frenzied charge to the bullring in the wilderness
A place which he knows so well
And along the course of his frenzied charge come
The sounds of the bullpen cracking and dilapidating
Small trees snapping and breaking
Rocks being bumped into
And the ground being pierced through
When the sun rises in the foggy morn
The old bull is found dead on the ground
Lying in the bullring where he used to fight
His horns penetrating deep into the soil
His body with deep bloody wounds as if chopped by knives
But his eyes remain wide open
With expressions of pride and smiles of fulfillment
