None of us will survive,

But we must try again,

To seed some fallow earth with the mysteries of the Byzantines

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

The accidental revelations,

Of our passing on the wing,

A voice that will always sing

Of the fall of Constantinople:

Of the mysteries of birth and death,

And of all the unalloyed impermanence

Of every passing note containing

The holy trinity of faith, hope and charity.

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
Such as that of gentle Desdemona.

Thus this infidel horror-show that ripped up a thousand years

Of the Greek Byzantines — the Christian Eastern Romans —

Continues to appal, this terrible blasphemy,

That has been present since the 29th of May 1453

Made manifest again in 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 down to explore the depths

Of mans’ abominations, miseries and regrets

Then lifts us up to heaven with the skylark.

Music takes each note apart

Then fuses them together

In the delicious harmonies of art

Note succeeding note,

Showing us the whole

Then tearing us apart.