Looking into a bashful sunset
among snakes that garland my ankles
it may be time to make some inward confession
or shall I just swift on
chasing the tail of a crazy moon?
Dirt is my pillow,
the wet ground my eternal mattress
my horse only knows so much,
yet am I an imposter on his back?
Maybe I should hunt for more castles,
to keep my head upon these gangly shoulders
for I say too many words in thin air
trotting onward, no tongues wish to catch my wit.
My passages may be a subject of delirium
just a cut out corner to throw my threads,
perhaps one day they will be spun into solidity,
yes the fires that burn the inns will be fresh flint.
Do I dare, as my name is Don Quixote,
go after the flesh of the moon
this night of no normality,
is it a game of hide and seek between she and I?
To me this is perfectly sweet and unbinding
the reasons for which I ride and sing through my country,
for most do not know a thing they do.
I know my tracks and playful ties,
even if born from the womb of delirium.
This Spanish moon so global and flared
bringing me silent nights of bliss,
bewildering sleep, cunning dream and privilege,
what can I give back and who will accept me?
Yes it seems so crucial now,
to use wisely and hint at what many call
a senseless daily wandering
atop this depressing mare of tiresome feet,
even if everything is dug from the well of delirium,
my epitaph it shall be, which the moon shall shine down on
remember, the moon shall shine down on it.
s t e f a n l o w r y
i n d i a l a n t i c, f l o r i d a
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