None of us will survive, we know,

But we must try again,

To seed some fallow earth, with the mysteries of the Byzantines.

Even, with their mirth, amidst the agonies of birth, and death,

The accidental revelations, our passing on the wing,

Given expression in voices that will always sing

Of the fall of Constantinople on the 29 May 1453.

Celebrated by the Muslim Turks every year 

Since then in Istanbul, infidel name for holy Constantinople.

Of the mysteries of birth and death,

And of all the unalloyed impermanence of breath

Of every passing note containing the holy trinity of faith, hope and charity.

It is love that sustains us against the screaming pain of desecrated Aleppo.

Aleppo the beautiful, with churches known to all.

Aleppo where Othello’s murder of a malignant, turbaned Turk

Foreshadowed the unholy trinity of Sunni, Alawite and Shia.

A veil of hurt in a land of tears, the self-slaying murders of

This infidel horror-show ripped up a thousand years

Of the Greek Byzantines — the Christian Eastern Romans —

And continues to appall, this terrible blasphemy,

Made manifest again in the attacks on New York and Washington.

We need another rending of the veil,

Holy war writ in blood down bankers’ walls,

Found again in music, the profoundest of the arts,

Which takes our emotions up to explore the depths

Of mans’ abominations, miseries and regrets

Then lifts us up to heaven with the skylark.

Music that soars upon each note apart

Then fuses them together

Into the delicious harmonies of art

Note succeeding note,

Showing us the whole,

Then tearing us apart.