Today's pilgrims carry maps,
Wear shorts & tattoos,
Looking for
The meaning of why they are here;
While high above
Swifts squeal & swoop,
Only mildly concerned
At the prowling kestrel
Or the jackdaws
In the mediaeval towers;
On the steps
Of Santa Maria del Mar
A timeless beggar
Has been waiting 600 years
For the guilty alms
Of the pilgrims in shorts
And tattoos;
Her Macdonald's paper cup,
A nod to 2012;
Does she know recession too?
The gothic bells strike noon
And the pilgrims
(In their shorts & tattoos)
Hurry out of the sacred gloom,
Puzzled at the blinding sun,
Squinting at their maps,
Trying not to see
The paper cup.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem