by Christopher Clauss

“Now look, your grace,” said Sancho, “what you see over there aren’t giants, but windmills, and what seems to be arms are just their sails, that go around in the wind and turn the millstone.”
“Obviously,” replied Don Quixote, “you don’t know much about adventures.”
― Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote

Are we not
a destructive bunch
that the very marvels we sought for years to build
we allow to crumble
tilt our lances angrily
and watch them fall into disrepair

How blue the toxic sky
the vindictive gait of blowing sails
blown erratic by the wing
all for the sake of a mill stone

Humbled at his side,
how far this is from duty
that can be won
How close to home

If I could mend your sails
dear giant
even then
it would not make up
for this humiliation

The sweet thrum of productivity
drowned out by battle cry
By anguished plea

Were I more loyal
I would have opposed him
I’d have cuffed his ear
and wept for your obsolescence

The day to come
when your sails lie torn and still
your towers crumble
and Don Quixote thinks
he’s won