Ode (with love) to the gr10 – August 2024

All 'round the mountains, the walkers wake.
Beneath the drizzle, their coffees bake.
High up where shadows drift on clouds' wake,
whole legions eager to this quest undertake.

The stone remains stoic, as always, it seems.
Even now when with all of these leeches it teems.
Bundles in coats beyond Joseph's dreams,
even the pack's cost counted in reams

of fabric exceeds all that for a king.
If counting the contents, add that of his offspring.
Hannibal's slaves would've killed for such things!
Or herders of sheep on this trail they were blazing.

No planting or sowing, they're just passers-by,
equipped with aluminum sticks they fly.
Oh! How the Catalan cattle bells cry
at wannabe Magellans and Sisyphi.