(from the moon series - Camino de Santiago edition)
as a stuffy monk chooses beds
for tired travellers and the wind blows in
down from the hills, down from the heavens,
down through the ages, as this was always a stop
for pilgrims but they didn’t always wear All Stars
and they didn’t always smoke just outside the chapel
in the darkness and they didn’t always complain
about the smell and the squeaky door
and the snorers in the bedrooms but
as we sleep in a room with stone hand made
walls and a curved white stone ceiling, I think
about the tired souls longing for arrival in Santiago,
longing for arrival wherever they are going
and the monks souls that are already here
and I ask, have they already arrived?
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