This is No Country for Old Men
The loaded gun cough of a bittern
disturbs air and dolphin waves
as the boats cross the Bosphorus
between two lands that surround
the city we call Byzantium -
for it is a rare visiting bird here.
The boats know their utter safety
for the Eastern Empire is bound
to last for a thousand years yet -
long enough to create its own mists
of time amongst legends beyond
the love of Anthony for Cleopatra.
Yet this is no country for old men
to linger for simple bodily pleasures
but should hobble their way from
desert fringe to mountain slope
fetility and fail the journey on a road
paved with soft centuries of silk.
From slender minarets to cathedral
majesty they go and name their chances
as variations of marked destiny and fate.
And while they travel along the trail,
encounter the travail, the confliuct
and magic of the Christian nail.
The piety of unbelief is their longing
and fear of that they reject - a diaspora
turned in upon itself that has become
too sophicticated for such superstition -
instead invested in reason and what
can be seen only with the eye.
And as they prevail to exist twixt foot,
boat, camel and ass, they live to see
convicted and baptized crusaders,
in genocidal zeal, righteously absolved
because their sword arm was kept
above the cleansing power of living water.
Like their own extended journey, all this
and Byzantium itself will not last,
will pass, the grail of guests become
alternately holy and unholy quests
and turn in their measured season
from germinated seed again to dust.
--James Bell
(Copywrite 2001)
