"minarets" poems
Sing a song of Tajmahal
a fine nazm or a ghazal
Of this landmark for lovers
Ah, a lover's edifice
Complete with medieval bowers
It's a Mecca for tourists!
Tis sensational, tis exceptional
tis truly a touristy place.
Watch the shimmer of its magnificent marbled dome
Moonlight or sunlight, it glimmers of imperial chrome
It's ironical then
that though Indian-Arabian I am
I haven't yet been to this touristy place
It is truly as they must say, a lover's shrine
a place where hearts duly incline
They find it steamy
I find it dreamy
Oh, I've got to see for myself this touristy place.
Each of the marbled minarets
conceal such romantic secrets
for lovers to silently explore
to admire and to adore
A place human lovebirds couldn't ignore.
Ah you've got to visit this touristy place!
Two famed lovers lie in the legendary vault below
and the stream too it has a romantic flow
It's a lovers haven and paradise on earth
Even dead passions there undergo a rebirth
Ah, rekindle my love for you in this touristy place!
Extol I may this awesome imposing edifice
A greed for pure love is perhaps better than avarice
Löng live the legend of Shah jahan and Mumtaz mahal
Long live love and love like a Moghul
so forever we have this monumental grace!
Yeah take me my luv to this touristy place!
Jun 11, 2019
Jun 11, 2019 at 2:11 AM UTC
A View from a Valley Well
As I drew from your valley well .......waters sweet last night
My eyes were transfixed on your ******* ***** and tight
Your fingers like the harpist lost in song
Were dancing upon these pink peaks so long
Beyond these matching minarets
My eyes espied your round ruby lips
These labials lisped that eternal sacred love song of the bed
Captivating is the view from your valley to your head
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 9:41 PM UTC
She wore mountains round her neck
(“No, lower.”)
Peaked with scented minarets
(Softer and sweeter than strawberries,
grander than a psalm.)
In the gulch between words
I offered you a prayer
and you wounded me with a poem.
I watched you move
like a summer night
to disrobe the cover
of your collected works
-a landscape of fire and blood
that beats a wardrum
deep in my hungry river.
Your petals pressed against my lips
to drown , to drown
gladly.
She wore mountains round her neck,
and I wore her ankles with a smile.
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 8:45 AM UTC
I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is your thoughts, my upset energies, and nightly turbulence.
Sleep provokes night and life and darkness prevailing in us.
When we wake up we are gone as our night precedes dawn
It is always the other way, bottom up and spaces spread.
At times we hear the police van’s shrieks, in night’s iron grill.
I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is not always the stick beating the road in rhythmic silence
And olive-green overcoat with flapped pockets and heavy boots
And six months old large-sized memories of a Himalayan home
With black-lined large dove’s eyes flitting among coal fires
Their smoke towering over the pines in snow-bound peaks.
I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is the turbulence we are speaking of, in the foggy sea we are
Or on the peaks where everything is bound in fuzzy snow
At the mountain passes where vehicles duly pass oiled by hot tea
Or in the mist-filled airports where aircrafts do not take off
Of politicians who decide mankind’s future in the apocalypse.
I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is my dreams as they were and the neighbor’s dreams
In the straw-roof, in the banyan trees with glints in their eyes
And much fine-powdered dust on their thick –coated leaves,
In lonely watchmen’s houses on the bleak stony spaces
And lonely watchmen keeping vigilant eyes on boulders
Strewn in brown spaces and scraggy bushes with strange lizards.
I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is the towering tombs and the trees that enveloped them
The children playing cricket in flying bats and stone stumps
Outside the vaults where kings and queens lay dead for ages
Their cold breath felt on the broken glass of Time’s windows.
I ask that you, I and women play a game of kabaddi in the trees
When it is still not dark enough in the minarets in the west
And children are still hitting ***** visible in the green of the trees.
Jul 15, 2010
Jul 15, 2010 at 3:33 AM UTC
7/12/12 16:25pm
At what price does man find favour with God?
Down through the roiling clouds, from heavenly heights to earthly clay,
where scribes had written scrolls of doctrines;
down through old crumbling architraves, temples of cold ideals,
man spawned the Vengeful Word.
With rage of angels,
like effigies of gods, there sprang forth lords and hypocrites;
all claimed to speak for God.
Then, in the maelstrom,
came genocide of innocents, and hellfire fell like rain.
When does a tower become too tall for God?
Out of a clear blue sky came silver harbingers of doom,
where men were writing drafts and spreadsheets;
now crumbling down around them, swathed in hate-begotten fire;
spawned from a vengeful god.
No mortal angels
could save the ones who perished, caught above the line of flame;
while some below survived.
Yet, in the chaos,
sworn enemies in faith came out to save each other's fall.
At what price can man enter Paradise?
High above the minarets, the veiled dome of the sky
students look up with wistful longing;
yearning to be good radicals and cross the lines of fire
to reap heaven's reward.
Hate's vengeful angels
pretenders to the throne of God take many shapes and forms,
while moderates stay quiet;
and with their silence
give passive leave for lunatics to prate at heaven's door.
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 11:28 AM UTC
a late harvest in Brigadoon
plucked from good earth
by strong hands
hauling
uphill, until
a gentle
slope
rewards
a stiff
back; easing
a grateful
burden
that levitates
famine
[ bushels ]
now
ziggarats
in a root
cellar
a Sumerian skyline
of parsnips and rhubarb
with fennel minarets
where Gilgamesh slept
in a pantry of pagan loot
underneath a corner room
at the very back
of a round
house.
where four seasons bunk with an almanac
mason jars of pickled beets
breathing their own blood
hanging gardens from the ceiling
of the Underworld
like fliers of missing children
on telephone poles
i go outside and wander off
you stay home
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 2:02 AM UTC
*When you read them you said words were dead
Only mausoleums could be created of them
You spoke the same tongue " words"
And yes you were right ! your words
entombed my living heart but in your love
But these same words archived hope
Only the true seeker could find
What if they created mausoleums ?
I marbled them
with the turquoise white of my tears
Intricately chiseled with love's essence
Only sunlight could ride with the breeze
Into its minarets laid around you , my life confined
As now you slumber in the deep of afterlife
Under the canopy of the crescent moon
Yes I created a mausoleum
A mausoleum of undying love
A mausoleum that crowns you
A mausoleum I called "Taj"*
31/7/2014
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 10:23 AM UTC
come on darling take a chance with us
our meat is on the seams of a blue-blooded funeral
a **** body burial, and the volcanoes laugh
the thumbs shake
as the fingers dance
makes the rain pull its roots on
for the showcase the generic plants
will perform a feral routine
every **** a command-stop forwarded
the nucleus inside of a vitrified half-assed colon
and if they shiver they will find their saw
tailored to the head of that aurulent god
a caterpillar reads the braille and follows my wrist
he condescends, and breaks notions causing new alarm
they are all special, green feet and orange sinewy lines
he casts his blame he curses across the myriad storms
gold minarets in the distance
serpents living under man-made rocks
counting down the seconds on armageddon's clock
a lion counts his livestock
he puts his socks on, he wears a headdress
in the shape of a flame
just outside the shadows of an autumn day
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 5:07 AM UTC
Father, I saw you last night
In a twilight dream you strolled through the streets of Shiraz,
followed by a fluttering butterfly
Passed the mosques and minarets,
turquoise blue and blood red
The cypress trees and poets' beds wept for you -
and their tears dropped like pomegranate seeds on the dry desert sand.
Father, I saw you yesterday
In a dusk-lit dream you walked through the streets of Baltimore,
followed by a fluttering butterfly
Passed the Hopkins dome and Ravens' home,
steamed crab orange and Oriole black
The patients in hospital beds cried to you -
and their tears fell flat on the soft O.C. sand.
Dear friend, Baba,
Aman, Vafa
We see you every day in an azalea's bloom
You live on in each grandchild's heart
You give our lives hope
In the early spring sun and the late autumn moon,
you breathe again
In your Akhtar's sweet smile, in Taraneh's kind style,
your heart beats again.
Father, I felt you last night
In a deep, dark dream you spoke to me
and with an angel's hands, dried my tears for me
Then hugged me with great joy,
and I read you this poem -
To my father
From his boy.
-Arman Taheri (7/10/2010)
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 12:29 PM UTC
Like two feet, we are,
Alone we both are.
in search of enlightenment, I burn
I exhale. I inhale you
therefore I continue...
life’s footsteps pacing towards nothingness
A long pause, just here and there.
can hear the heartbeats not in sync like before.
its running faster… trying to escape…louder...thirsty...hungry
Insecure bird.
fear to fly, resting in the nest.
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 1:20 PM UTC
If earth is a mother
We are mother *******
I swear it's not an ugly name
It is a name
we have earned after awesome ashamedly acts.
We are not simply satisfied with unclothing earth
We love to drill deep inside her womb
And love to ***** huge minarets of her own meat and bones
On her emptied-self;
Earth is a symbol of our unending desires:
Our need are not in our little stomach
They reside in our devilish mind
We are ******* pampered children
We have learnt to live on her depleting signs.
Ignorance is our times' global religion
Lured easily by biblical stories
Told by our corporate priests
My stomach is a warehouse of fast-food chains
My mind is advertisements' gutterhole
Every night I wait to be slaughtered like a hog;
May be now days we are not born with brains
We are jungles of moving men
With umbilical cords gone.
We are dead suckers
We are mother *******
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 8:36 AM UTC
I have sought You in bits and pieces,
because You are scattered across souls;
I have possessed the places Your heart leases,
for I have not found You as my home.
Do I seek You in those whispering trails
that silhouette my velvet skin –
as prayers and penance, when all else fails
to disrobe me of my mortal sin.
Do You kiss my fingers as strands of beads,
that I touch upon in times of need;
in hopes that You will grant me grace,
or embrace me with Your graceless greed.
Do I find refuge in Your vaulted heart,
with idols that idle in your wake;
in sermons, in summons, Your will You impart,
only Yours to give, only Yours to forsake.
And what of in temples that You have built,
in Your name, of Your fame that You have distilled —
those towering minarets that I cannot breech,
resigned only to altars at which You preach.
A covenant, I covet
with the revenants above it —
Your Altar
Alters You —
my haunting Beloved.
I have sought You in the most essential of ways;
in touch, in taste, in the most sensual displays.
Between covers,
Did I discover
You in a supine repose?
A restive being,
at rest in being –
fated only to my
depthless prose.
Find me, You say, I am yours to find.
A part, never apart, we are seamlessly entwined.
Long for me, for us, and for our Eternal Affair —
For, my Beloved, ours is not a caravan of despair.
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 7:26 PM UTC
A crushed Shah Jahan said:
When you behold the memorial,
a sight so masterly, yet sorrowful;
you will inevitably admit
an aching little bisecting wish
that adorns your yearning lips....
parched,
barren,
effete......
And from the world's lid,
the luminaries too
would sob and drip.
#
He could well have been talking
about my beloved's words ;
......so utterly breathtaking
that a sigh poignantly quivers
in my dithering being.
Her words meander.
It is no wonder:
for all of us saunter
in thought and speech
one time or the other.
At times her words are poised and easy.....,
wonderfully jolly, sensationally starry:
They shimmer like the four minarets (1)
on the full moon night;
....brilliant......resplendent.
Then they taper from the dome
and stop halfway between the tomb
and the solemn reflecting pool:
They are calmer, sober,
and you know,
a little factual;
...what they call discriminating
intellectual, rational......
Soon the words leave charbagh (2)
and hit the red sandstone walls (3)
crenellated with flawless wisdom;
spotlessly beautiful
like the lifeless marble
that proudly commemorates
Mr. Shah Jahan's love
in grim, cold blooded grace.
We talk about
riders and scruples,
kith and kin,
restraints and constraints,
fidelity and modesty.......
....and I can not help
but to sadly agree
to the placid logic
in our impeccable scripts.
#
Logic is a wonderful remedy
for the radical and foolhardy
but for every cure,
there is a spin-off.
Deep somewhere,
a delicate,
two-cent sentiment
collapses into atrophy
and.......silently
another part of me
becomes a
meek monument
of disposable history.
----------
(1) The four minarets of the Taj Mahal
(2) The garden that starts from the end of the main gateway and ends near the squared base of the mausoleum is an integral part of the Taj Mahal structure.
(3) The building material used is brick-in-lime mortar veneered with red sandstone and marble and inlay work of precious/semi precious stones. The mosque and the guest house in the Taj Mahal complex are built of red sandstone in contrast to the marble tomb in the center.
Nov 11, 2019
Nov 11, 2019 at 10:27 PM UTC
☪ ☮ ☪ ☮ ☪ ☮ ☪ ☮
Bearded and furious, quoting some prophet
they rage in the streets of their failed nation-states
exporting dysfunction, subversion and violence
the hordes are empowered—they’re now at your gates.
They fume as they gesture, in ***** pajamas
and brood over battles from centuries past.
they **** for their Caliph in murderous dramas;
the next ****** tantrum will not be their last.
Republicrat/Democan? Satan to them…
They care not an angel what party you vote.
Your well-meaning efforts are lost in translation—
they’ll just as soon slit your good liberal throat.
Scandinavia’s day-dream, once Nordic, once bright
is consumed in the chaos and vanished as smoke.
Santa Lucia receives violent darkness for light
as statistics play dead to her national joke.
The Ishmaelite deity (Arabic sin)
is a vicious excuse for extreme misbehavior;
a wind of aggression, demonic conception
enraging dead souls against Jesus, Our Savior
Let destruction descend upon Mecca/Medina.
The angels rejoice—may the righteous side win;
for the judgement of God on an evil religion
proclaims that earth’s joy is about to begin.
While the minarets topple, midst filth and manure
in a cleansing display of immaculate hope,
the muezzins are silenced, the pilgrims are stalled
and the muftis are starting to mope.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 11:34 AM UTC
The hawk nosed general in the grey suit sniffed
out his enemies, labrador like, nose to the noise,
chest beating, bleating, blaring in the thunderous
applause, that made his ego bloom amongst the corpses
of the shrunken heads and hands reaching out for bread,
in the shut down quarter of the empire
where the eagles flew in/ out dropping mustard,
caught between a deadly sandwich of
closed escape routes.
"Burn them all" he said, and turning to his sidekick,
he smiled a thin smile, devoid of the god he worshiped
in the minarets on the mosques that stabbed the blue sky
with their sharp bulbous needles of attention.
At twelve the muezzin called the faithful to prayer and
moaned for mercy on the unbelievers.The call echoed
and reverberated down the streets.
The mustard closed the eyes of the city where the
gas cannisters jangled on thin nerves and let the
people sleep forever.
The grey suit, now eau de cologne scented handker-
chief
hawk nose sniffed
wiped his forehead and walked
spritely to his armoured vehicle, to call his wife
and enquire if the kids were enjoying their summer swim.
"Yes, darling!" she tingled with excitement.
"How's that part of the city
where these rats live?"
"Good love! Just need to smoke 'em
out some more!
By tonight I'll be home for dinner. Bye for now!"
The line went dead
with twenty others, fried in the concrete
pan of a bunk buster bomb dropped from a drone
with butterfly wings and a sharp upside down minaret
nozzle of spray now stabbing the earth.
Earth to sky, sky to earth?
The barbed wired brains circled the city.
Children soon crunched cockroaches,
mice and rats and grass salads, autumn leaves on wild spinach
thousands died eating succulent poisonous roots.
Even the carrion claws refused to descend into the darkness
of carcasses that lay down in the streets to pray forever.
The water turned green with envy as lichen,
clogged with blood and ***** and bones rotting
under bridges, ****** up the blue river
and sent the beavers into burrows of omerta
The world watched and waited.
?
Around the dinner table the grey suited general
tucked his napkin under his red,wellfed face and smiled
at his lovely wife in a designer outfit.
" Pass me the mustard please, darling!"
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 11:35 PM UTC
I was dust before
But then I knew
I was a brass bone
In the most ancient god
A point of light in
The machine twisting
Mandala regurgitating
Novel universes
@ whim
If life were true
I would build eleven cities
For you
And golden spires; minarets
Twisting to
Knife the pink horizon
Would be my poetry
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 12:17 AM UTC
Shards of ice that teem
With a pearlescent glow.
Your minarets gleam
And pry over my turbulent waters.
You are not what you seem
If you polish your sharp edges-
Or cut through them with a tongue as sharp as your craters.
But I'll wait four weeks-
So that you will fall back into the shadows.
But, alas, I cannot run fast
For you are the winner;
The long distance winner that routinely comes and goes.
Aug 11, 2017
Aug 11, 2017 at 2:50 PM UTC
Chanson d'automne.
Déjà plus d'une feuille sèche
Parsème les gazons jaunis ;
Soir et matin, la brise est fraîche,
Hélas ! les beaux jours sont finis !
On voit s'ouvrir les fleurs que garde
Le jardin, pour dernier trésor :
Le dahlia met sa cocarde
Et le souci sa toque d'or.
La pluie au bassin fait des bulles ;
Les hirondelles sur le toit
Tiennent des conciliabules :
Voici l'hiver, voici le froid !
Elles s'assemblent par centaines,
Se concertant pour le départ.
L'une dit : " Oh ! que dans Athènes
Il fait bon sur le vieux rempart !
" Tous les ans j'y vais et je niche
Aux métopes du Parthénon.
Mon nid bouche dans la corniche
Le trou d'un boulet de canon. "
L'autre : " J'ai ma petite chambre
A Smyrne, au plafond d'un café.
Les Hadjis comptent leurs grains d'ambre
Sur le seuil d'un rayon chauffé.
" J'entre et je sors, accoutumée
Aux blondes vapeurs des chibouchs,
Et parmi les flots de fumée,
Je rase turbans et tarbouchs. "
Celle-ci : " J'habite un triglyphe
Au fronton d'un temple, à Balbeck.
Je m'y suspends avec ma griffe
Sur mes petits au large bec. "
Celle-là : " Voici mon adresse :
Rhodes, palais des chevaliers ;
Chaque hiver, ma tente s'y dresse
Au chapiteau des noirs piliers. "
La cinquième : " Je ferai halte,
Car l'âge m'alourdit un peu,
Aux blanches terrasses de Malte,
Entre l'eau bleue et le ciel bleu. "
La sixième : " Qu'on est à l'aise
Au Caire, en haut des minarets !
J'empâte un ornement de glaise,
Et mes quartiers d'hiver sont prêts. "
" A la seconde cataracte,
Fait la dernière, j'ai mon nid ;
J'en ai noté la place exacte,
Dans le pschent d'un roi de granit. "
Toutes : " Demain combien de lieues
Auront filé sous notre essaim,
Plaines brunes, pics blancs, mers bleues
Brodant d'écume leur bassin ! "
Avec cris et battements d'ailes,
Sur la moulure aux bords étroits,
Ainsi jasent les hirondelles,
Voyant venir la rouille aux bois.
Je comprends tout ce qu'elles disent,
Car le poète est un oiseau ;
Mais, captif ses élans se brisent
Contre un invisible réseau !
Des ailes ! des ailes ! des ailes !
Comme dans le chant de Ruckert,
Pour voler, là-bas avec elles
Au soleil d'or, au printemps vert !
650
I saw her across the street, blonde hair,
bronze summer skin long legs
she wore her crooked glasses and her smile
A black jacket and blue jeans
ripped at the knees by natural causes
Some people just glow in any weather,
I think that when the sunshine gets spilled on them they never let it go.
long fingers
hold science fiction books like stray puppies
When she speaks
Her hands move with a life of their own, they spin worlds
like grandmothers spin tapestries,
she takes the fabric of the time she passes through and makes it a masterpiece.
In my mind she is a time traveler
She's a 1920's jazz singer, a wartime hero, a ballroom dancer, an astronaut
She believes in a better world and she is it
see it in her eyes
Cherry jubilee ice-cream in her hand offered to me
I can't help but grin.
Instinctual reaction, like you squint your eyes in a spotlight.
I'm sad because she'll never see me
how I see her
as sunshine
I can't hold her but
I don't know how to let her go
Walking around town together
Musician on the park bench
notes of an acoustic guitar
beads of water on her skin
and the wind kicks up,
the snowflakes don't settle
but dance
like dust motes who found salvation.
Minarets who touch the music we can't hear
speak it through a motion and a whisper
brush across the pavement and the leaves
I feel them touch me
body and soul
I
maybe, just for a moment am the wind.
Gale in from the Pacific,
race over the green valleys,
batter the blue tinged purple mountains of the west,
through the golden motes and sunbeams of late evening
caress shivering aspens and high mountain pines
All the way until I reach my outstretched fingers,
and slip right through.
Much like you, my darling.
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 9:18 AM UTC
i
built
a tower
way up high
i built
a castle
in the sky
I built it high as it. could get
with spikes and spires
and minarets
it had an ivory sort of gleam
alabaster
in its sheen
I constructed it so proud
but it was made of glass and cloud
i built and built
i could not stop!
i climbed up to
the very top!!!!
but when I got up there i found
i had no ladder
to
get
D
O
W
N
!!!
soulsurvivor
catherine jarvis
(C) october 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 2:25 PM UTC
They tell me
I write okayish.
I smile and greet them
as the sun greets
the minarets in the desert,
without a purpose.
Why don't you write something on love,
they say,
something about a terrible broken past,
it sells,they love it.
they relate to it.
I tell him,
I don't get the vibes out of it,
love sometimes feels like
eating leftover chips at
a mediocre burger joint.
I prefer watching dogs
playing in the rain.
atleast they never pretend.
Jan 22, 2018
Jan 22, 2018 at 5:34 AM UTC
O’ Jamil! This heart is no less than a city of dreams,
Where the full moon reigns — in majesty and gleams.
Its minarets rise from sighs never spoken,
Its silence, a scripture — in symbols unbroken.
Beneath its sky, visions and shadows convene,
And the moon walks gently, veiled and unseen.
Oct 10, 2025
Oct 10, 2025 at 10:12 AM UTC
Minarets stand tall and sleek and
proud, announcing prayers at
intervals at odds with the
hourly bells of the basilica
Red rooves jostle for space
amid bullet-ridden history and
rejuvenated, freshly painted
homes and tourist-inducing
restaurants and market shops selling
trinkets: silk scarves, bronze pots
wooden flutes and ubiquitious
paintings of Stari Most
Crowds fill the lane leading
to the revered bridge, like pilgrims
A heady mix of peaceful
nations, short skirts
passing by headscarves
trading surreptitious glances
snapping photos of the bridge or
themselves and the bridge or
loved ones and the bridge
Watching with a rooftop drink
a bold and daring young man
small and youthful from a distance
encourages support and jumps
into the cold Neretva river
vigorously proving life goes on
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC
bliss of this magnitude occupies minarets to
unseen depths
facets of me you will always remain perplexed
over
hues spill supreme, sketch an image blinding
you've turned me insomniac, cipher love
twist the frequency of my speech
they do not satisfy, I know
twist, sound the bell
I can envision you still here
vivid strides in silhouette, fate's definition
now squandering
-c.j.
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 2:16 AM UTC
On an overcrowded street,
where bright and darkness never meet,
where voices barter to be heard
from faces hidden behind veil or beard.
Aromas, perfumes, pungent smells,
wafting forth from wishing wells,
coffee roosters wake up the souls,
Bazaars of ochre in sun drenched bowls.
Minarets with nibs of lead
scribe 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
but leaves no doubt to which bears fame.
Constantinople or Istanbul,
no place, no name, can be so full.
On one goes, by cheek, by jowl,
eclipsed by fading light in cowl.
No talk of morn, no night yet come,
no curfew called, nor quiet but hum.
Of dreams Aladdin's, of wicks, of lamps,
of sesame, pariahs, tramps.
Of sounds from far off citadels,
of glamour, clamour, peal knell-toll bells.
No sleep, no sheep, 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, an eyeful feast.
The spawn of dawn, once far, now here,
a call to all, to kneel in prayer.
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 7:43 AM UTC