Raging Bull

In the mist‑clad dawn of the field,
A beast roars, its breath a storm,
Ears perking to the distant clatter—
The clink of metal hoops, the thud of its own heart.

The Raging Bull, head high, tail a banner,
Horns like iron coiled in a half‑smile,
Its muscles ripple beneath mottled hide,
Each step a drumbeat, beckoning the wind.

It strides with purpose, fur furrowed, eyes aflame,
A rumour of violence hanging like smoke in the air.
Not as a gentle creature of the market stalls,
But as a foot‑soldier of fate, a warrior in the plain.

Beneath the moon it pauses, lashes reflect the glitter,
A moment of calm before the tempest surges—
The world narrows to ropes that bind the boxers,
And the pulsing ring that holds the thunder.

The Raging Bull, a name that echoes through stalls,
And across the hero’s gym where fists sing stories,
Its heart beats a rhythm that joins the crowd’s roar,
A fearless champion, defined by the clash of wills.

Here in Britain’s backwood, this beast is measured:
By strength, by spirit, and by the clench of a survivor’s hand.
It is as fierce as the rugby position if we’re honest,
Haunted by the darkest lullaby that swelling desire bestows.

In the keen dawn, the bull charges—
A symphony of power, a testament
To the spirit that doth not fail, that doth‑not fold.
It is life, it is triumph, a proud, roaring monument.