As we are:

Quixote would stand
Surveying the span and depth of the drop.
Pick up a stone, throw it nowhere near
The other side reaching.

Check for bridges and fallen trees, none.
A good tail wind to aid a heroic leap, none.
A rope, and a team of horses
That could pull his side a bit closer to hers

For a year, for one hundred
He would walk his edge from one end to the other
Only to turn away, realizing
That fate and windmills are unrelenting

And hope is only a word
Written by a fool without choice or an exit.