Blood orange

In old town Seville

Where shading trees

Spill orange nuggets

A father juggled

The fallen fruit

Somewhat in jest

While a baby

Crawled on its knees

Never thinking of evil

And a son practiced ball skills

With concentration and zest

Thinking he was Messi

Ready to shoot.

This gave me cause to reflect

On my trip to the bullring

In search of the truth

When I stood on the sand

Of an ancient arena

And remembered

When matadors were king.

This is the place

From which bullfighting came.

Now I have to confess

In that moment

Doubt took root

I heard a howl from the past

And felt a prick of shame

Because blood is not orange

And I thought it was strange.