Upon the Wind, Sir Quixote’s Shadow Dances

Upon the plain, where sun and wind conspire,

A gaunt form bends, both proud and frail with age;

His limbs, like brittle reeds, yet burn with fire,

Each step—a stanza writ upon the stage.

His lance thrusts skyward, arm arcs, shoulders tense,

A sudden lunge—his steed reels from the blow;

Windmills, those towering fiends, turn defense,

Their wooden arms cast shadows deep below.

He stumbles, grips his chest, then leaps anew,

A twirl of limbs, spurs scraping earth’s dry skin;

At sight of inns—his knees bow, arms outstrew,

A humbled knight before imagined kin.

Thrown from his mount, he writhes, then slowly ascends,

One hand to breast, one grasping at the sky;

In battle’s wake, his blade still sways, pretends,

Though breathless, bruised, he spins, resolved to try.

With trembling fists, he strikes the leathered air,

Head bowed, back hunched, a charge both wild and bare.

Each flailing stroke, each stumble, twist, and fall—

A dance of hope: to rise, though frail and small.