Sunday, April 12, 2015

Quixote at Sunrise

But I chose this. I chose to be undermined: why?
Because I too was afraid. Because secretly I too
thought the stories were too good to be true,
that there was a dark vein running through the marble.
I wanted a scoffer at my side, someone to explode
my extravagance of cheer, Panza to my Quixote.
And so we have traveled, decades in company: 
I supply the hope, he the despair. It works
in its fashion. But there are times, 
on the windswept crest of the hill, overlooking
the camp of our enemies, when I wonder,
have I chosen wisely? Would it have been better
to have a squire who believed my foolishness,
and handed me my lance with shining eyes?


Dale said...

I pronounce Quixote in the provincial American fashion, kee-YO-tee.

Nimble said...

I like kee-HO-tay myself. (Am still trying to believe that the French pronounce Don Juan as Don Zhuwan.)
I often want to have things both ways, be the idealist and the cynic. Thankfully the sarcasm of 14-16 has never been surpassed.