La Mancha 

by Samuel De Lemos

The madness of Don Quixote 

chasing whirlwinds sparks

an ancient dialog:

Who introduced the windmill, water fountains,

and orange blossoms onto Iberian shores?

Rosinante

loves dark chocolate and butterscotch,

even though she’s bony as can be.

Her loyalty is steady as an underfed

Andalusian steed.

Searching for chivalry in the days of the Inquisition.

Holiness has gone missing from the land of La Mancha,

what remains is terribly stained.

Ancient manuscripts sold in long-forgotten ghettos,

where savvy translators once lived.

A story is bought, but no one can read it–

the vernacular is forbidden, unholy

spoken by those who can’t be seen.

What was Saavedra after,

who where those funny

pork salters, the best in the land?

Masked behind the sadness

It rivals the best of Greek tragedy,

turn the pages perchance you’ll find what’s

buried in the behind the text—it’s

the death of a civilization,

the man with the beard and lance

is the only one who perceives.

Riddles, picturesque innuendos, the novel is full of them.

Unless you know the history of that land,

the book remains a story of simple laughs and charms–

sold as hidden mysteries.

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