A Bridge to Istanbul

In the Old City of emperors,

the crowd mourns its dead as silent

obelisks and history look on.

No charioteer

to drive the race, no animals

in the Hippodrome.

Time has caught its breath

and left its dreams at home.

At Hagia Sophia, heart-wounded

visitors gaze at muted mosaics.

Shoppers at the grand bazaar

find no fruit to satisfy, the poets

and their poems have gone prosaic.

At St. Antoine, the steeple

weeps.

Then, a crash of cymbals,

and artists and designers wake

from heavy sleep to take in hand

the work of grief and love

and call to those around the world

to rise above,

to build a bridge

across our suffering and shame,

to write on hearts the sadly

shuttered names.

In the market, all the poems

and songs are free. We drink

our bitter cup and shade the sun,

and when we think at last our work

is done, birds come to carry

in their beaks these words

from America to Taksim Square:

Forgive us when do not speak ---

we hear, we know, we care.

Next Chapter: Baghdad