Child’s play, for him, was coup de grâce
Last redemption, for the, falling beast
One death, ended, two lives’ impasse
Both baptized, by, brio’s blood-feast!
Whilst, a beaten beast, ‘Mozart’, lay bare
A ‘hero’ flaunts, his, ‘martyr’s’ shroud
That cape, of faith, and façade, of fear
A mother’s moans, fade out, in a, father’s shout
“My ‘Bonaparte’, at last, did me proud!”
How horns, measure up, to, steely spears
In this, pride and disdain’s, sacrament
Wherein, pain bears, sadism’s, loud cheers
Until, last drop, of blood, is spent!
He speared, his soul, who gored, his heart
To redeem, creed of, their machismos
Neither, ‘Mozart’ lost, nor, won ‘Bonaparte’
Who stole, whose glory, no one knows!
Why world, celebrates, conquests of, gore
Is blood-lust, man’s, lasting metaphor
With which, built a boy, his dreams, galore
To That Dust, Returns, The Matador!
© 2021 Vikas Chandra