Member Rara Avis
Dulcinea. I finally looked up the name
To find out what it meant.
Right between dulcimer and dulia;
Lap harps, convocations for lost angels.
Dulcinea: a coarse girl, a peasant,
Mistaken as beautiful by a madman.
He thought windmills were giants.
(in a way, they are)
Their blades play shadows on your face;
Your downturned, look-away-from-me face.
The air here is cold. But with the sun rising
It can be a church.
I've set out chairs in the grass, empty
Chairs devoid of their warmth. No one sits
Except the light from the sun and the wind
From the blades. The dulcimer twangs.
Father -- why did you do this?
I'm not speaking of god.
But the man who so ungently
Took you, tore you away.
Now you think you are unbeautiful.
Now you think me a madman.
So I bow my head and remember in prayer
What I learned on my own.
We all need our crutches to stand tall and free and happily alone.
I look back up, the windmill has stopped,
The shadow a cross in the silent grass.
The empty chairs are all that's there,
And I feel free at last.