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. |