Down in a village of rolling brown plains,
An old hidalgo sat counting his gains.
But his mind was far off in the pages of old,
Where knights were so noble and giants were bold.
With scarce any sleep and a feverish brain,
Alonso Quijano went mad from the strain.

He polished his armor, all rusted and gray,
And dubbed himself “Don,” ready into the fray.
“The world needs a hero to right every wrong!
To shatter the wicked and champion the strong!”

He recruited a neighbor, a short, simple soul,
Named Sancho Panza, who dreamed of a role—
The rule of an island, a kingdom of gold—
So he mounted his donkey, loyal and bold.
The knight and his squire rode into the sun,
Before the great trials of their fate had begun.

[…]

They came to a field where the great windmills stood,
With arms spinning wide out of canvas and wood.
“Look, Sancho!” the knight cried, and lowered his lance,
“See those monstrous giants that dare to advance?
I’ll slay them in battle and take all their spoil,
And leave their foul bodies to rot in the soil!”

“Dear master,” cried Sancho, “those monsters are plain,
Just mills grinding wheat for the farmer's own gain!”
But Quijote spurred onward, entirely blind,
With visions of glory upfront in his mind.
He struck at a sail as it swept through the air,
And horse, lance, and rider went flying right there.

“The sorcerer Freston!” the bruised knight explained,
“Has turned them to windmills to see my name stained!”
So onward they rode through the dust and the heat,
Embracing each circus of grand, wild defeat.
They fought against sheep that were armies in disguise,
And freed a band of convicts with tears in their eyes.

[…]

The world mocked the dreamer, they laughed at his shield,
At the tricks and the beatings he took in the field.
A Duke and a Duchess played games with his head,
And Sancho got an island where trouble was bred.
Yet through all the madness, the chivalry shone,
A beautiful light in a world made of stone.

At last came a knight on the Barcelona shore,
The Knight of the White Moon, who challenged for more.
'Twas Sansón Carrasco, disguised in the armor,
To defeat the old dreamer and act as his charmer.
He unhorsed Quijote, who lay on the sand,
And ordered him home to his own quiet land.

Back in his bed, as the fever grew high,
The illusions vanished like mist in the sky.
Alonso awoke from his chivalrous dream,
And saw the old knight was a foolish, wild theme.
He wept for his madness, he laid down his breath,
And closed his tired eyes in the stillness of death.

But Sancho sat weeping beside the old bed:
“Don’t die, my dear master! Let’s ride out,” he said.
“Let’s dress up as shepherds and live in the green,
For the grandest adventure is yet to be seen!”