Constantinople By aldo kraas, www.PoetryPoem.com/poet11586 Unlock all Features - Upgrade to Poetry Prime
You press your lips into my skin and numble,
A liturgy of blesed words
They are Old Church Slavonic in my ears,
And I desolate sinner, listen in desperation to be saved
Your fingers trace my roughened edges,
Transporting me to other times,
In your bright eyes, I see golden rooftops,
Of Byzantyne monasteries glistering in the light
I am your queen and you are my king,
Our bed is the wall of Constantinople,
Glory of the south
Yet in forbidden passion,
We have forgotten,
The inevitability of our abolition to the crescent moon and star,
Approaching from the distance in crimson rain bleeding from the sky,
Poisoning the sun with darkness,
Casting shadows on the fortress of our kingdom,
Death to our empire has come
Your eyes become empty vessels,
Pupils of hardened coal,
Before me stand a thousand Ottomans tearing at the
foundation of our wall,
You leave me in ruins,
The ghost of the magnificent European South.
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