Quixotes we are. With each word you’ll see the windmills morph into huge giants and the fight would regain its meaning.
Sailing through an angry sea you enter the gates of Barcelona. She is proud. She’s defecated. She is alone. She is not the land of Cervantes. But she hosts his tamable buildings on her hills. Red hills of sorrow.
We write Cervantes dreams on each and every page. Pages, once written, turns into birds with silver wings. Like a mirror, the world around them displayed on their furry silver. Wings whisper the words to unbecoming ears. Ears deaf and musical alike. Propagating loneliness. Whispers become waterfalls. Trees root in them. Glorious forever.
Implant the windmills of Mykonos to the heights of Barcelona in your mind. Bring in the music. Bring in shrimps in parsley sauce. Bring all the mermaids of Aegean. Bring in the dance of men. Men who cry us oceans. Let all these be of our words, longing for the fight. The fight of our dreams of youth.
You will see with your mind’s eye then. Windmills planted on Barcelona heights will marry Aegean wind. A music will fill your ears. Unspoken before, unheard. It will cry Dulcinea!. When she is heard, the windmills will turn into great giants. Ready to fight your head off. Unto the ground. With full force. Crushing.
Close your eyes. Remind you of my words. For they are the power of your whispers. To win the fight, the whispers we inherited in our bones. To see the sea and be one without shedding a tear. Of sorrow. Of regret.
Close your eyes. Your hair will cover your ears. But. You’ll see the sea.