On, an over crowded street,
where light and darkness, never meet.

Where voices barter, to be heard,
From faces hidden, behind veil or beard.

Aroma’s, perfumes, pungent, smells,
Wafting forth, from wishing wells.

Coffee rooster's, wake up the souls,
Bazaars of ochres, in sun baked bowls.

Minaret's with nibs of lead,
Draw crescent moons, on skies, near red.

Seraglio point, which marks the horn,
Where Marmara, is Bosphorus born.

The sky Blue Mosque, mocks Mecca’s name,
Leaves no doubt, to which, bears fame.

Constantinople, or Istanbul,
No place, no name, can be as full.

Back we walk, by cheek, by jowl,
Eclipsed by fading light, in cowl.

No thoughts of dawn, no night yet come,
No curfew called, no quiet, but hum.

Of dreams, Alladin's, of wicks, of lamps,
Of Sesame, Pariah’s, tramps.

Sounds from far off citadels,
Of glamour, clammer, peal knell, toll, bells.

No sheep, no sleep, no counting herds,
No Mudlark talk, no listening nerds.

Romans, Greeks, have gone and come,
Left names on stones, Byzantium.

Where west, joins east, nigh one, the least,
by bridge, shake hands, by eyeful, Feast!