Hands clasped behind, she looks towards the sky,
A young dancer she is, lean and so spry.
Up on a platform, made out of bronze,
She’ll be cast in ballets that star maidens and swans.
Fields are a-blowing. Ground filled with wheat,
The sky seems in turmoil, despite soft clouds, so sweet.
Cypresses stand tall, a hill rises at right.
A sliver of moon rounds out the sight.
Bring out the bull, I’m ready to fight.
See my pink cumberbund, my leggings of white.
You won’t see a beard like the one I display,
But in 19th-century Europe, it was a style of the day.