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The White City awaits me, Yeats’ poem at my rest,
the great Hagia Sophia rises aloft,
for Constantine, Isidor and all the dreams
of poets, saints, and philosophers, kneel in prayer, for the return!

Gliding through the Golden Horn,
Galata’s shadow spreads into the night passage through,
to the greatness of a Kingdom, we set forth
to ages long ago past, yet in my dreams, all is reborn.

We yearn again, sailing to Byzantium, finally and forever,
Rise, fall, lament and grow old, you await me, so close.
The city recedes into history, a mere shadow,
now of a fading faith, rot and decay but oh, such beauty.

The glory of history sweeps over, seeping into every stone and step,
from the great outer walls to the Hippodrome, I venture.
Think not of the fall of 1453, it overwhelms and consumes,
and such a sadness kept, for where has He been?

The fall and collapse upon us, one weeps in longing for
the greatness of Justinian, of loca sancta and mosaics of gold.
The white doves in flight from this heaven-sent place in time,
for from this earthly White City, He reigned for the ages,
still, eternity distant, all fades into horizons and many seas away,
the Return to come.