Who told you that Don Quixote’s dead?
I beg you not to trust that groundless tatter;
Beyond the power of death, and time, and clatter
He’ll always be, and’ll always move ahead.
Julia Drunina
The prancing Rosinant has become one whole with his master. Waking up in the morning Don Quixote is overwhelmed with a creative spur. Holding a paintbrush in his right hand, he is painting a portrait of his beloved having completely forgotten to get dressed. ‘One stroke, a second and a third’, he is humming to himself, hurrying to transfer his feelings to the canvas. ‘Ne-e-eigh…’, Rosinant is expressing great sympathy with his master and is pointing with his front hoof what to improve and where. With the back hoof he is kicking the equestrian on the boot forgetting all about being spurred. They both realise they have to finish till dawn. ‘Oh, faster, faster, while the feelings are still fresh and passion hasn’t left the mind…’