Extraído de Spring with a Broken Corner, de Mario Benedetti.
The other day I saw a bullfight on TV, which is like a stadium where a man plays with a red cloth and a bull that pretends to be furious but is actually very good. After many hours of playing, the man got bored and said, "I don't want to play with that beast that pretends to be furious anymore." But the bull wanted to keep playing, and then the man got furious, and being very stubborn, he stuck a very long sword right here in the back of the bull's neck. The bull, who was already about to beg for amnesty, looked at the man with very, very sad eyes and then fainted in the middle of the arena without anyone granting him amnesty. And I felt so sorry for him that I let out a tiny, tiny sigh, and that night I dreamed that I was petting the bull and saying "chicho chicho" to him, just like I say to Sarcasmo, Angelica's dog, and he wagged his tail happily, but in the dream the bull didn't wag his tail because he was still unconscious in the middle of the arena, and I was giving him amnesty, but in dreams it doesn't count.