If I close my eyes I won't see

It amazes me how the farmer
can see the beauty in the bull
in an open golden field
free, strong, powerful,
boasting to others its' magnificence
as it's held up to behold.

How this same farmer-
in all of his wisdom-
could lure the bull from grace,
into the seclusion of a pen,
behind iron bars,
ring through the nose,
horns knocked off,
trapped for breeding,
a memory of the champion.

You don't get more naked
than that broken creature.

Until a young boy's innocence
sees the beauty that still exists
in the deepest blue windows.
His whispers birth new strength
and reserge the hope
for the bull to break free
and find the warmth of the sun
in new vast expanses.

Time passes but the boy remains
shirtless and unwilling to go
beyond the half hour.
He waits for them to run
to a place too warm for white jackets,
and too beautiful for farmers.