If only I knew.

One hundred years after its death,
Don Quixote fought to save it;
Juxtaposing this with masculinism
And, four hundred years between;
This all stirs westward in a pot,
Remixing ingredients, renaming recipes
For ethics, for conduct;
History repeats itself, apparently-
Nature observes itself in every instance;
Nothing has died harder than chivalry.

To the warrior’s perception-
As in the absence of insanity-
The slain are not windmills;
But in the presence of the stimulus,
The illusion fades as one gets closer.
Even today many ask if it is dead.

windmill copy
Image by me.

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