Quixotic
Quickly, sword in hand, he dashes to the battlefield,
Undaunted by booming cannons aimed right at him,
Inured to adversities far greater than his tiny shield,
Xpecting to wage his lonely fight, though not to win.
Only his soul knows what he really and truly wants,
To be a worthy foe or just an annoying mosquito?
In the end he is forgotten, mere footnote in history,
Crushed, wasted, relegated to the bin of ignominy.
Copyright © Wilfredo Derequito | Year Posted 2007
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