Through the rusty, ever-grinding clangour
Of the fierce worldly chariot,
Through the curses, whistle, laughter, clamour,
Having lost his horse, lance, shield and sword,
To the fence of lands of Dulcinea,
Don Quixote will drag himself, at last:
Gates are opened, on the sand of alleys
Rouses lay… and every bush is cut!
Forcing back his uninvited tears,
Don Quixote will ask a somber page:
“Why did you kill all these roses here?” –
“Tidings came to us, such outraged,
That the faithful Don Quixote was wounded
By the poisoned arrow to death.
“Dulcinea”, said my lady, “would not
Have survived her Don Quixote on earth!”…
And the poor knight will escort the coffin,
Caring not for jeers’ and mocking sets:
Dulcinea, the luminous, lofty queen
Of the joyful paradise is dead!