“Buen Camino” from each passerby

filled my ears from charged air

that flew past our heads while

feet pounded cobblestones -

left, right, left, right - feeling

vibrations of bagpipes light me up.

My achy shoulders - butterfly wings -

 

drew together; tired eyes lifted,

gazing at cathedral spires while

my feet drag, riddled with blisters

that hurt more when I stop trodding

alongside friends whose faces

are fires, consuming the sight

 

of the finish line before us.

Faces - glassy ponds on bodies -

reflected the summer sun’s rays,

tattoo guns etching eternal memories

into skin. My legs trembled and

 

my hands - marked with tan triangles -

clutched the backs of friends,

grasping onto sinewy muscles -

all that is left of the past 500 miles.

 

Our bodies are worn out from

the transformation of walking

and walking and walking.

 

This thru-hike, this worship,

culminates here but continues

 

in our lives outside of Spain.