Poetry | Rhymed Doggerel

May Joy Return to Stamboul

Turn, turn, turn

The old church regards a city that sprawls Over two continents in a nexus so strange That empires, religions, and loyalties tumble At the crossroads of time in a season of change.

We walked hand in hand down the crumbling halls; Our hearts like the minarets soaring above. The tulips outside were opening their petals; They smiled as they echoed our season of love.

Now the song of the imam from minaret calls The faithful to pray in the echoing gloom. They kneel down together, avoiding their neighbours, Each socially distant this season of doom.

The plague has invaded old Istanbul’s walls The defenders are fighting with masks and with soap. May their prayers and their wishes bring peace to the conflict, May we all feel the warmth of a season of hope.

The phrase “four seasons” inevitably draws my thoughts to Sultanahmet, the timeless heart of a fabulous city. Perched at the very tip of a continent, the hills of Asia rise across the Bosphorus, the ferryboats shuttle in and out of the Golden Horn, and I walk with my lover through a mellow spring evening, the sounds of families at leisure bouncing off buildings a thousand years old.

This is a city where plagues and invasions, emperors and poets, traders and spies have rushed past in bewildering succession. If there is a place for history to turn a page, this is it.

Britni

Thank you, Geetika, for tagging me in this, for a writing prompt that read:

The Challenge

We invite writers to produce a piece of poetry, fiction or non-fiction on the theme of Seasons.

Bonus video: seasons don’t have to be about weather.