When at 18:30 p.m. the joyful fluttering of the bugles sounded and the lock of the gate was heard like a hammer blow that crushed its flight, Morante de la Puebla dazzled the same 40-degree sun. Her orange dress like a sunset by La Algaba, sewn like a jewelry embossed with charged silver, being white thread, contrasted with the gold of the vest.
At 18.48 José Antonio Morante shone differently with a hat of Olga Jiménez berreón, who had rammed straight aborting veronicas; On the right had fallen a couple of silky lances of packing and garbo. By that hand, at the time described, Morante drew a gigantic rejection, a superb round, among many others that led to his height to the bull. That it was nothing to write home about.
The task grew on the talent of genius, temper, his plumb line, his waist and weight bullfighting. A supernatural natural creaked the square. Like the chest passes that never ended. All serene, solid piece, superior to the manageable onslaught of the bull that dotted because it was not comfortable, fasting class.
He released a capital bullfight before burying the sword. Rear, somewhat stretched, above. Slow death came. But the lines were not populated with handkerchiefs to the extent that the work deserved. Maybe. Maybe not. A sufficient majority for the president to have acted sensitively, especially considering another bullshit of ears that are given. Nothing. In Seville, however, they do not know about Morante, who ostensibly angry seemed to verbalize, according to television witnesses, a "president you have no shame." It was 19.09.
- Seville
- Morante de la Puebla
- Bulls
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