Cervantes stares me in the eyes…
i am not Don Quixote…
no trusty right-hand man…
no windmills…

and there are foes outside…
battles to be won…
moving from town to town…
in search of Dulcinea…

looked on 7th Avenue in movie booths…
hands coming through holes…
voices promising pleasure…
t’was not my queen…not my queen…

walked down alleys where homeboys stood…
rapping on cellphones…
speaking in tongues…
for they had not seen…

slipped past Dominicans in Washington Heights…
had not heard a word…
streets offered nothing…
longed for love…

dreamt of Dulcinea…
need for her touch…
wanting of love…
come to me…come to me…

my fight is gone…
body is weak…
to feel my fairest once again…
this is what i long for…

Cervantes stares me in the eyes…
i am not Don Quixote…
no trusty right hand man…
no windmills…