a poem for pamplona.

"A San Fermín pedimos,
por ser nuestro patrón,
nos guíe en el encierro dándonos su bendición"

We arrived in Pamplona with only cigarettes and three cents
In the silhouette of dreams spent, we were eager for the weekend
With the sea scent still fresh on our backs
Red scarves and white shirts like ties to our past.

We didn’t sleep
Red wine still cradled in our palms, next to our lucky charms
We arose timidly
With visions of saints, we sat smoking cigarettes
Killing the wait, we were visions of angst
Testing our fate against the gods
They could see me shake visibly
I tried my best just to laugh it off
And pass it off
As the wine catching hold, at a time when a soul
Would try to absolve
Itself from its cage, so tired and old
We tried to joke in the silence
While rose petals settled to floors
We smoked in the quiet.

We toasted Saint Fermín
With a hope on our eyelids
Dope on our side
With the closing of tiring
Eyes quick.

We awoke with marijuana smoke
Carrying us down to Santa Domingo
Nervous laughter
But still broke
Feel low, with our eyes to the ground
Silently praying aloud
That this day will be found
In our hearts, in our heads, as better than nothing
Except for the suffering
We were bred for this courage.


We waited nervously
Stood at the entrance of the valley of the dead
Pacing purposely
Shuffled nervous feet, waiting for rockets at nine
Flipping lucky pennies
Ready for the shock of our lives.

We savoured the taste
Of adrenaline in the air
Rockets sounding
Fear was traced in its wake.

With death at my heels
I was desperate to fill
The void in my life
That was
Desperate
To feel.

I was crushed
On the first bend
I’d never trust in my good friend
Just a taste of rust that was a god send.

That’d be our first and last
Running of the bulls
Lost in the valley of the dead
My lips still pursed to laugh.