To yield silk for silk, 

					millimeter by millimeter, 

					the petal-like tissue 

					to the finest needles.





					To weave, weave, weave, 

					weave the bull in pink, 

					without yielding the very terrain 

					of the matador.





					In the smothness of the silk, 

					in the cutting edge of a glimpse, 

					to slide over the sword 

					the purity of fire.





					To retain the fate of the bull,

					to feel the vein on the fingertip, 

					to bring the leather close to the body 

					without a flip of fear.





					With the thinness of the needle, 

					even if the blood chills, 

					retain the dark rose 

					on the petal-like skin.





					In the bullfight in the round, 

					to spill blood and salt, 

					weaving a rose 

					of fatal red color.





					Millimeter by millimeter,

					to yield, yield, yieid, 

					to yield until the very minute 

					when feeling that death has come.