A belated thought
Does not want to be thrown as fodder to swine.
It would rather, as an arrow, and with a tip besides
Dead on target even in gale and storm
Fly launched by a rider at a gallop.

It dreams, having read its fill of books,
Watched its fill of films about ideals,
And Don Quixote didn’t make it even there,
Now he overslept and missed it again.

There are no horses, bows and spears forgotten,
Yet one can feel oneself a genius,
A keyboard will suffice —
Just poke a finger at the right key.