Quest End


Quest End

Limping and lean, Quixote wandered on.
Bent and straining, eyes burnt red and cracked
He stumbled to the shadow of a rock
And stopped. He knew the truth. The end was near.

The sun beat down. Slowly sliding past his eyes.
His armored head rose up for one last look.
Was that a windmill broken on that hill?
He feels the pull. His lips begin to move.

Is no one left to help me start again?
Who comes with hope and energy to burn?
No one. It’s only I. Alone in Spain.
Will history find the road to Alcala?

Perhaps a one-armed soldier will find me here.
Will he write about my battles large and small?
Will he find a man of mirth to ease the pain?
A soft-skinned maid to love her paladin?

Miguel Cervantes comes to steal my sword.
Tamp down my drive. Take back this lonely quest.
He’s done his long, rich book that tells my tale.
Too late for both of us. This strange, fast life.

One sad last blaze beside this burning rock.
I see a grinning face inside the smoke.
It must be Death. Who else is left to call?
I’m slipping slowly through the maw of dreams.
Part of the beginning, and now the end.

With shouts of love and glory, Quixote sleeps.

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