Bereft of the poetry of his soul
The knight took refuge in the house of death
Into darkness he went with his mind crushed
Wandering lust gone and with his own trust.
The enchanter gone
And disenchantment entered
And the land of La Mancha
Slowly turned to dust & cinders.
Talisman of allurements or of feasts
Chimeras of windmills or of fabulous beasts
Golden liquors and the shining decanters
Tales of poets sorcerers and of wizards
Adieu to stillness and the romance
Tryst and other typographical stance.
His merry madness had to go
And sanguine sanity had to be constructed
Don Quixote had to be demolished
And Alfonso had to be resurrected.
Alas! there is no poetry left now
In the lands of the Al Toboso
And no veils of Dulcinea now accrues
Across the knight of the mournful rue.
Durlabh Singh is a poet living in London, England.
Featured Image: “Don Quixote” by Oswald Achenbach.
Don Quixote by Oswald Achenbach
Upon a trail in shadows, Sancho Panza stares
at Don Quixote pointing tow’rds a huge beige rock,
and just beyond, the sea. He sits upon his horse
and holds a long lance in his hand. Here is no croft.
Huge cumulus white clouds, some touched light purple, pass
above the rough and rugged open landscape’s loft.
Behind him on the trail, Panza’s on his ass.
Beside them grow mean, barren, scrub-brush plants, and rare.
The two men look ridiculous, or lost, perhaps.
It seems as if they’re in the middle of nowhere,
and yet, although severe, the scene is lovely, fair.
There is an ideality within the air.