On a coir cot, he rests somberly
counting the wooden beams of the ceiling
and wondering if they would crack
A smell of death hangs in the air
through the half open door
For the Red Ox in the next room
is waiting to be skinned.
Its large eyes, pools of darkness now
have wet patches around
as a signature of helplessness.
With the head bent in submission
it now awaits the arrival
of the god of death.
His wife, unborn children
and some of his dearest friends
It has carried many to the fields
With each death they inched closer
as fellow victims.
Another unmarked grave this would be
and in the solitude of early hours
he would plow through the sadness
across all of life's seasons.
(Title for this post is same as Hemingway's fine novel "Death in the Afternoon" where the death is of a matador in Spanish Bull fighting)