My Camino
My Camino
Put one foot in front of another, how hard could it be?
Early to wake, coffee, juice and move.
The early Galician clouds are lazy and stubbornly stick around.
They wet my clothes and imagination too.
Last nights debauchery soon forgotten as crunchy steps echo my effort.
Cross the railroad and stroll,
The clouds rise like tired rebels.
One foot followed by the other, and the baggage strapped to my back.
Steep slopes of Celtic countryside that resonate deep within myself.
Sparrows snigger at my steps,
Robins flick by and have a look, their friendly familiarity finds me well.
Crunch, crack, the footsteps follow the path.
Sometimes it resembles the yellow brick Road and I wonder if the great Oz awaits.
The Camino De Santiago, so much more than a walk to those with imagination.
I brought a pal to help my efforts, to accompany me on my way.
Bobby Sands on a badge walked with me,
Pinned on my top.
I was supposed to leave him there but I couldn't let go.
The pilgrims go to mass and I reminisce.
The fallen, the volunteers.
And so my steps carried their dreams,
The unrealised ones, or was it the other way around?
Were they carrying me?
To walk that wonderful way is like fresh aired redemption,
that moves more than my body.
To move on, the simple things we deliberately forgot through time.
To walk, with nature and remember the things that most were taught to forget.
To simply be present in a moment of time as the world slowly spins.
Mountains, strangers and the most magnificent surroundings for any soul.
So why did you do it?
What be the reason to stroll on paths full of steps?
The Camino to me was time away from the banalaties we now call life.
Real time, the escapology of work and demanding dogs.
I remember the birds, people too, but especially the ones with wings.
They inspire me, with their own intricacies and wonderful waves from hundreds of feet above.
How bad we must have been to make them fly.
The Camino, softens your soul and makes the things that the rat race deems of import disappear.
I'm trying here, the words are like Palestinian slingshots, sometimes inaccurate but full of fire and feelings.
My reason.
I didn't know until the end, when I finally stopped walking.
My mind reluctantly brought me back to school.
I was abused, not with intimacy but so everybody could see.
To ridicule and reduce me to tiny tears.
This is my Camino and that man that beat me was a real life ghoul that still spooks me.
These are the steps that was my walk, running from the angry man with the yellow hands.
The man that stole my life, spat me up and lit a cigarette, an angry moment they said.
Beaten until blood like lava leaked from my head.
Now keep in tune as my pals puffed into their musical moments.
I'm sure he poured a coffee after and terrorised the next in line.
Confidence disappeared in a moment stolen by that monster.
This is my Camino and my thoughts seep like menthol through eucalyptus trees.
Like them I weep, but never openly.
Move forward or reverse.
The beginning of who I am starts today.
The man with the yellow hands and recorder that made me bleed,
I hope I never see him again
This was my Camino, people with sticks wept as they arrived.
How lucky they are.
I never did learn to let go.
Although my bag was small I carried a load, any not a single tear slipped from my freckled face.
Put one foot in front of another, how hard could it be?
Early to wake, coffee, juice and move.
The early Galician clouds are lazy and stubbornly stick around.
They wet my clothes and imagination too.
Last nights debauchery soon forgotten as crunchy steps echo my effort.
Cross the railroad and stroll,
The clouds rise like tired rebels.
One foot followed by the other, and the baggage strapped to my back.
Steep slopes of Celtic countryside that resonate deep within myself.
Sparrows snigger at my steps,
Robins flick by and have a look, their friendly familiarity finds me well.
Crunch, crack, the footsteps follow the path.
Sometimes it resembles the yellow brick Road and I wonder if the great Oz awaits.
The Camino De Santiago, so much more than a walk to those with imagination.
I brought a pal to help my efforts, to accompany me on my way.
Bobby Sands on a badge walked with me,
Pinned on my top.
I was supposed to leave him there but I couldn't let go.
The pilgrims go to mass and I reminisce.
The fallen, the volunteers.
And so my steps carried their dreams,
The unrealised ones, or was it the other way around?
Were they carrying me?
To walk that wonderful way is like fresh aired redemption,
that moves more than my body.
To move on, the simple things we deliberately forgot through time.
To walk, with nature and remember the things that most were taught to forget.
To simply be present in a moment of time as the world slowly spins.
Mountains, strangers and the most magnificent surroundings for any soul.
So why did you do it?
What be the reason to stroll on paths full of steps?
The Camino to me was time away from the banalaties we now call life.
Real time, the escapology of work and demanding dogs.
I remember the birds, people too, but especially the ones with wings.
They inspire me, with their own intricacies and wonderful waves from hundreds of feet above.
How bad we must have been to make them fly.
The Camino, softens your soul and makes the things that the rat race deems of import disappear.
I'm trying here, the words are like Palestinian slingshots, sometimes inaccurate but full of fire and feelings.
My reason.
I didn't know until the end, when I finally stopped walking.
My mind reluctantly brought me back to school.
I was abused, not with intimacy but so everybody could see.
To ridicule and reduce me to tiny tears.
This is my Camino and that man that beat me was a real life ghoul that still spooks me.
These are the steps that was my walk, running from the angry man with the yellow hands.
The man that stole my life, spat me up and lit a cigarette, an angry moment they said.
Beaten until blood like lava leaked from my head.
Now keep in tune as my pals puffed into their musical moments.
I'm sure he poured a coffee after and terrorised the next in line.
Confidence disappeared in a moment stolen by that monster.
This is my Camino and my thoughts seep like menthol through eucalyptus trees.
Like them I weep, but never openly.
Move forward or reverse.
The beginning of who I am starts today.
The man with the yellow hands and recorder that made me bleed,
I hope I never see him again
This was my Camino, people with sticks wept as they arrived.
How lucky they are.
I never did learn to let go.
Although my bag was small I carried a load, any not a single tear slipped from my freckled face.
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