This morning, the streets are alive,
hearts pounding louder than hooves,
louder than the church bells ringing,
a symphony of fleeting footsteps.
Thousands gather, stitched together by
equal parts thrill and madness,
skin kissed by fear and courage,
their shadows swallowed by the sun.
Six bulls barrel through cobblestone veins,
their muscles raw poetry in motion.
Men run, as if chased by regrets,
as if daring the earth to halt.
The air tastes like dust and daring,
like promises shouted but never heard.
In the afternoon, blood will stain
the sand, cheers tangled with silence.
What is it about danger that sings,
that bends bodies into graceful arcs?
What makes humans flirt with ending,
turn risk into ritual, survival into sport?