I’ll yield to a court of yours, injustice, Like to the gray autumn’s assault. In fight for earth and heaven’s highness, He did not tiered – Don Quixote, Didn’t he become cold or unwilling, Didn’t lost his movement, resolute… . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . But wind, destroying the mills winging, Stole my victory for good. Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, May, 2001