QUIXOTE AND I:

We gallop over old La Mancha´s dusty red earth,

Chasing the moon, as new dawn gives dewed birth,

Long lances aloft, the flying manes of brave steeds,

Our Purpose in chilled air & in the aim of our deeds.

Red-Sun burnished amour, hot tinned on our breasts,

Protecting honour & passion that beats in our chests,

We tilt at white windmills & at our errant lost dreams,

Slaying those dragons who thwart our planned schemes.

Sweating painful red wine beneath the steel Spanish sun,

Where vinegared blood once played & once joyously run,

We ride round in rough circles, blaming unjust cruel world,

Attempting to crack the nut, where cold hearts are furled.

Echoed in old hills, Rocinante´s plodding clopped hooves,

Iberian history, blood-running in dry & dust-rutted grooves,

Red dusk & dry dust meeting, uniting in passionate tinder,

Burning, dissipating in the history of lost Castilian cinders.

“Quixote”, the wind calls our names & your Dulcinea am I,

Together we gallop, we ride chasing dark impossible skies,

They may just be dreams, but dreams do often come true,

So together we´ll ride the storm & the steed, just me & you.