Waiting for the barbarians is finally over:
Shades of pale shine through the pretty traces of lace,
Revealing in opal-luminosity the essence of  these late Romans,
Their indigo-dream now red with gore on this bloody May Day
Ottoman savagery cancels forever their impossible absorption into the timeless
creation of Constantinople’s holy drift and swell.

Elysium’s perfumed garden of lucidity broken by
Mehmed’s Turkic desecration, his sweltering road to infidel hell, lined with
Friars who dig stench-filled graves for Byzantium’s raped and beaten ladies;
Ragged monks drag the crucified down from St Sophia’s walls
As the muezzin calls the conquerors to triumphant prayer.

Evil culminates in this transylvanian transformation:
The endless summer skies of holy Constantinople cross to the new world. The suddenly lengthened shadows above these steepling twin towers,
As  holy war resumes its darkest powers.