Hail Quixote, you should be real
and alive this day; we need you,
Knight of the Woeful Countenance
guiding Rosinante’s bony carcass
around the cars on the main street.
Eminent Crank, with your shield
of adamantine imagination,
we have so many new windmills
that need tilting at, and you are
the only viable champion.
Come gaunt defender out of
La Mancha; amidst the simulacra
of a degraded world, chivalrous,
at once you spotted your Dulcinea
(what business is it of hers?)
Only hope, love, and delusion (but
I repeat myself) can make
this hell of a world bearable.
That was your lesson, your mission;
realism is folly anyway, and what
is Truth? Her indifference
breaks the poor heart of the most
indomitable fighter and impels him.
Come, Hidalgo, Hero, save us
from modernity and from ourselves!
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