The Running of the Bulls
I read that Pamplona is
Where Hemingway despaired
Into his icy vermouth deep into the night
But found, to his constant astonishment,
That each and every morning
The sun also rises
The sun rises on these narrow streets
Making a golden halo over the star-shaped Citadel
Glowing under plastic-covered bistro tables
Pouring into windows around the Plaza del Castillo
Where the Old Man (not yet to the sea)
Drank like a fish and kissed the pretty ones as they walked by
If you walked by, he’d kiss you too,
Discernment ebbing on the flow of wine
But you are not here to be kissed
You are in the freshly painted Plaza de Toros
Caged behind an old wood gate
Stomping your hoofs, spitting at the floor
Raging to be let loose on the road
I shoulder my pack and follow the signs
To the road out of Pamplona toward the setting of that same sun
I hear you snorting too close to ignore, pierced by the picadores' lances
I am dizzy with hope that the gate will hold fast
But fear I’ll be trampled nonetheless
~ Cheryl Murfin, along the Camino de Santiago
Absolutely beautiful Cheryl I wept at some of the lines 💕