The travel-weary pilgrim trudged
Onward toward his goal--
Hoping to find peace and comfort
For his questioning soul.
 
Uphill and downhill, through forests and fields,
Step by step he plodded
Upon the blistering path. While passing
Fellow pilgrims he nodded.
 
Beating down upon him the sun--
Merciless, piercing, terrible--
Made each step an agonizing
Ordeal--harsh and unbearable.
 
A restful night at a hostel or shelter
Was refuge from the pain
Of hours and hours of walking
Through sweltering heat or rain.
 
Some days were kinder--the sun was gentle,
The breeze was soft and cool.
He'd stop and gaze at the blue sky above him
And wash his feet in a pool.
 
But usually hungry and thirsty he journeyed,
Hoping not to find
That after hours of walking and stumbling
He'd left something behind.
 
Loosening the cutting strap of his backpack
And giving his dry lips a lick,
He carefully wiped his dripping brow
And clutched his walking stick.
 
If his pilgrimage didn't bring him
Closer to God, it would
At least bring him closer to himself,
And that alone would be good.

- by Bob B