As windmills go,
it was too far back to hit,
too distant for deriding at full tilt,
like Don Quixote and Cervantes.
Its blood, its life, should spill onto the ground.
This windmill's spinning arms will still go round
and rise, beyond my wishes and advances,
not tilted full, nor tilted to the hilt.
But at least this windmill, just a little bit,
was pushed off balance as I turned to go.
Child Poems site