The Hagia Sophia in Istanbul. Dedicated to an Old Mentor.
A
‘Neath a mighty dome of gold,
Upon pillars doth it rest,
The world hath seen none like her,
Flying, floating as if in flames.
There stood the mighty of Constantinopolis,
Lords and masters of Roma,
Soldiers, priests, panegyrics,
Basileus and basilea.
Oh, Justinian Caesar,
Most noble Augustus,
Upon all he rises,
In glory and splendor.
To Italy sovereign,
His sway overcasts all Morea,
He shook his seat Nicene,
Adored by his native Illyria.
On his right
That captain of soldiers,
That high lord, Belisarius,
To his left, that lord of wisemen,
High minded Evagirius.
There stood,
The rulers of the Earth,
Silent, peripheral sentries
Upon this sacred border,
Anathemius in its midst,
Who made this wonder,
Here was a man of measure.
B
Oh, Anathemius, to all arts a student,
None are his equal, in wisdom or skill,
His mind itself, a divine wonder,
Among architects he is emperor still.
Like him no man ever was,
In his art or another’s so able;
His art outshone them all
As he’d gaze upon a field or heath,
And see the tower, and a palace beneath.
C
Heavenward gazed Anatheme and mumbled,
Sudden he turns, crying: “Away!
Your own souls pray save,
Oh, sons of man!
My lords, my friends,
Away!
Oh, my work, higher than mounts,
Upon you is now,
The hand of God!”
No sooner these words his lips had departed,
The hall had shaken, his walls had quaked.
The pillars tremble, shake and break,
And the Dome of Wonders,
Flying, as if in flames,
Earthbound falls,
From all sides abandoned,
Her father she demanded,
And him did she take.
Lost is Anathemius, his wisdom withal
No man shall know, nor hear,
His voice, to the utmost deep descends,
Or to most high Heaven ascends.
D
Chaos is sovereign, at the great hall,
No man can tell,
Neither purple or gold,
Emperor and eunuch,
Alike they shriek,
and in his creations’ tomb,
the master laying.
As a fury howlers Justinian,
In pain is groaning lord Belisarius,
Silent and cool
As the stoics of old,
But the high-academe, Evigarius.
The friars abound,
Like crows spawned in darkness,
The end of all things do they threaten:
“What worth are these studies vain?
Sons of men, awake from thine pride!
Thou hath seen the hand of Heaven,
How it undid vanity’s child?
Fall to our feet,
And before us grovel,
That is your fate,
From most high ordained!”
And none shall stand to silence the cry.
None shall break the false mouth or
shatter the empty and shaven skull.
E
But among the chaos and rubble,
None had either looked or heed
To Isidore, the youngest disciple,
Approaching the murderous tomb,
How by the lethal cairn a candle is lit.
His master’s hand he held,
So cold under the stone
Yet his right is steady,
And on the marble,
Engraving a dome.