Mother of God,
now, as I wait before You,
dressed for the ring, wearing my satin and gold
before the flaming votives in my hotel room,
and they've left me alone for a moment so I can pray,
and in half an hour I'll be standing before the bull,
Mother of God, now that I wait, tell me,
in this moment of dread, when my gold embroidery
turns into living nerves and veins, tell me
why I seek and do not find,
why I stubbornly eat stone instead of bread,
or, to put it better, because I'm not telling the truth, tell me
why I can't open my heart,
or why, when I open it just a little, love does not enter me.
Mother of God, you who lead the bull away from me
with a sweep of your skirt, tell me, why I wander
in Elijah's dark valley but don't find the water,
why I'm dying for that without which I cannot live,
why the ravens eat me instead of feeding me.
and finally, tell me please, why I always know
there will be no answer to my question, neither from You nor from me,
and I must leave the votives behind, as if lit
for some unknown martyr in the catacombs,
and go again to the ring, not knowing
if I will return to blow out the flames.