The Sultan's Dream

For Istanbul.

On a faraway hill in the arms of the sun
where forests are golden and silver streams run
to the embrace of the river and out to the sea
stands a palace of wishes and dreams to be free.

Below in the dungeon a lone man may cry
and call to his gods and pray he could fly,
while a woman weeps softly and thinks of her home;
of fields and of mountains she will never now roam.

A cook in the kitchens preparing a feast
quietly ponders the face of the Beast
as scullery boys scuttle and scramble to steal
one or two mouthfuls to make them a meal.

Out in the courtyard a servant hauls water
for horses of soldiers who are sent out to slaughter
starving farmers and craftsmen and farmers alike
soon learn that their pleas are answered by pike.

Down in the village a father is crying
at the foot of the bed where his children are dying;
for silently sickness calls at each door
delivering darkness on winds of war.

And even the beggar cries when he sees
a once mighty nation down on its knees
praying and wailing and stricken with grief,
not living on faith but a farce of belief.

But the law is the law and taxes are taxes
and for unwilling souls- executioner's axes.
A peasant's obedience must always come first
even for those who are dying of thirst.

For on cushions of silk in a chamber of gold
in safety and comfort far from the cold
covered in rich furs and finely spun fleece
the sultan lies sleeping in silence and peace.