Tilting At Windmills
The grinding millstone
The chaff invested air
The lone miller bow's in prayer
Seemingly lost in the chaos
The code of honour
Looking through the opaque
The lone miller, is he sage
Or lost in the modern age
Tilting at windmills
Is he a quixotic man
Doubtful it was a plan
His prayer said
Now he mixes
Rye, wheat, corn
Out of this, bread is born
Body soul and redemption
Made of hand, blessed with spirit
The lone miller, is he sage
Or is he lost in the modern age
Tilting at windmills
The code of honour reclaimed
The nature of a man, set free
Tilting at windmills
He will always be
Copyright © Gerard Quain | Year Posted 2013
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