I am your Dulcinea,
your fantasy with clay feet.
I sit high, perched on a pedestal
while you gaze in open adoration.
You always believe the best in me,
regardless of what the world may know.
I am your pristine goddess,
the pure being come to grace your reality.
Although I don't need your help,
you are always ready to rush in and conquer my foes,
Regardless of how silly and fanciful the enemy windmills might be.
The world may laugh and mock your blind devotion.
I may smile and take you for granted.
But deep in my heart, I am glad that you are always there for me,
Seeing only the perfection in me,
My loyal Don Quioxte.
