The plain lies before us,
shimmering in the heat.
The lance is heavy in my hand
My ancient Armour creaks.
Rocinante lets out a snort
and gives the reins a shake.
Is that a giant that stands before us
or just this ancient ones mistake?
We are both old and past our prime;
My faithful horse and me.
I spur old Rocinante forth.
and trust my lance for victory!


Alas, I'm unhorsed by my powerful foe
The windmill has made short work of me.
My pride has been bruised but nothing is broken.
We press onward to destiny.