Windmills

Some days, most days,

the windmills are just windmills,

their giant sails turning to grind wheat

to flour to make our daily bread,

nourishing the bodies of mankind and industry;

 

but then, there are those days

when the windmills, enchanted, raise

their giant arms for combat, to face down

the hard-fought battle of an old man’s dreams

set free by age and rage and Rosinante

carries us forward, enchanted ourselves,

against a madness of men accepting life’s as it is,

bleak and unbearable, men’s murderous ways to man,

and dreaming now our impossible dreams, tilting

at those windmills, shattering the mirror of reality

that would blind us to what should be, to who we are,

but knights-errant seeking truth, righting wrongs,

a gauntlet tossed and the challenge

bravely taken, a banner unfurled.