Dulcinea's Theory
In a solitary place whose name does not really isn't care to bring to my memory, there was a man who spent his life eluding the concrete woman. He preferred the manual enjoyment of reading, and he effectively congratulated himself every time a knight-errant thoroughly charged one of those sweet female phantoms, made of virtues and overlapping skirts, that await the hero after four hundred pages of exploits, tricks and nonsense.
On the threshold of old age, a woman of flesh and blood gave the anchorite a place in her cave. On any pretext she would enter the room and invade it with a strong scent of sweat and wool, of a young peasant girl overheated by the sun.
The knight lost his head, but far from catching the one in front of him, he went after, through pages and pages, a pompous product of fantasy. He walked many leagues, speared lambs and windmills, upset some oak trees, and stomped three or four times in the air.
When he returned from his fruitless quest, death was waiting for him at the door of his house. He only had time to dictate a cavernous testament, from the depths of his parched soul. But the dusty face of a shepherdess was bathed in real tears, and she had a useless flash before the grave of the demented knight.
SOURCE: descargacultura.unam.mx and translated with some help of DeepL
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| sourse: Nonoo Amr |
