It is August

It is August, and now we have returned.
Like Ulysses, our travelling is done.
The muscles that we pumped, the fat we burned,
The tans we both acquired thanks to the sun.
These slimmer selves, with energy to spare
are less than certain now to keep it up.
A lazier mood could soon encroach. The daily care
lead to an idle life. The food we sup
convert to fat the muscles of our waists.
Should we allow that now would be a shame,
So it must stop. This danger must be faced.
And time put by again to do the same.
To act, decide, prepare another plan,
And set off once again, now while we can.

Written after cycling the pilgrim route to Compostela

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