Say that We Saw Spain Die

Say that we saw Spain die. O splendid bull, how well you fought!
Lost from the first.
                            . . . The tossed, the replaced, the
                  watchful torero with gesture elegant and spry,
Before the dark, the tiring but the unglazed eye deploying the bright cape,
Which hid for once not air, but the enemy indeed, the authentic shape,
A thousand of him, interminably into the ring released…
                 the turning beast at length between converging colors caught.

Save for the weapons of its skull, a bull
Unarmed, considering, weighing, charging
Almost a world, itself without ally.

Say that we saw the shoulders more than the mind confused, so profusely
Bleeding from so many more than the accustomed barbs, the game gone
            vulgar, the rules abused.
Say that we saw Spain die from loss of blood, a rustic reason, in a reinforced
And proud punctilious land, no espada—
A hundred men unhorsed,
A hundred horses gored, and the afternoon aging, and the crowd growing
           restless (all, all so much later than planned),
And the big head heavy, sliding forward in the sand, and the tongue dry with
           sand,—no espada
Toward that hot neck, for the delicate and final thrust, having dared trust
           forth his hand.