In the mirage of windmills,
they spin against the velvet dusk,
tall giants that only he can see.
Don Quixote tilts his head,
the world a fevered dream,
a field of scattered constellations
falling like embers from a fire.
His armor,
a coat of rust and memory,
clangs like old songs forgotten
by the shepherds on the hill.
The sun bends to kiss his cheek,
like a mother who knows her child
is lost, yet still believes in miracles.
Sancho grumbles, a tether to earth,
but even he can’t escape
the madness of impossible quests,
the allure of dragons and doomed love.
For who but the mad can drink
the wine of sky and swallow stars whole?
They ride on,
into the endless labyrinth of the world,
where each step fractures reality,
and shadows are as solid as stone.
His lance splinters against nothing,
yet he stands, a tower, unbroken.
In the echo of his charge,
we hear the sound of our own hearts—
brave, foolish, eternal,
beating to the rhythm
of dreams that will never die.
Poetic Alchemist 