I.
A lonely Christian triangle, bounded by sea and wall, 
Through time and tide its mighty pride have withstood all,
but now the magical clock chimes thinly,
As midnight approaches; the long shadows start to fall. 

The great chain is made taut, across the Golden Horn,
The mighty gates swing inward, to guard against their fates,
The timeless sentries of Constantinople, now watch forlorn. 

The great war engines of Mehmed, that blasted Babylon itself;
now rent asunder, Theodosius’ mighty wall,
The noble city weeping, sheds brick after ancient brick, 
The Greeks fill the breach, each time as the night does fall,
Come bloody dawn, the Sultan rages at this Christian trick,
The voices of a thousand prophets, echoing in his head;
by the twenty ninth of May, Saint Sophia must hear the Muezzin’s call!

II. 
Sailing on the tide bearing Christian hope, Genoese galleys blessed of the Pope, 
Answering plaintiff prayers, at Saint Sophia’s holy font;
point their proud prows windward, racing into the Hellespont.

The Sultan fumes; those cursed Italian ships must be doomed,
Mehmed encourages his sailors, with the promise of the executioner’s sword,
From the cathedral spire masts, a thousand Genoese arrows loomed,
Raining a tempest of death, nailing those Ottomans to plank and board, 
The devil’s scorching breath; the hellfire of the Greeks every sailor consumed, 
The Sultan burns with rage, as he charges into the sea, spurring his horse toward, 
The stout and lofty ships, saintly surge through Turkish pride, leaving the Sultan’s navy 
all watery and entombed.  

III.
From the fiery crucible of Mehmed’s fury, is forged a miraculous feat,
Seventy Ottoman ships are conjured, floating through the air,
Guided by the Prophet’s hand, appear in the Golden Horn’s seat,
Now smugly under the Emperor’s nose, the Genoese smell despair. 

The tight grip of famine gnaws at Christian bones, 
Only the morsel of prayers to sustain their hungry souls,
The relieving Venetian fleet but a mirage for drowning hope; 
now louder, louder, deafening, the bell of doom tolls!

The dark shadow of death blackens out the sun, 
The precious Virgin icon, comes crashing to the floor, 
Rivulets run red, from the wounds of God’s son,
From Sepulchral dome, the portents and omens look poor,
Constantine weighs the imperial law; circumcision and holy derision, 
or, embrace divine fate and honor all the Romans that came before,
God has abandoned the city, departing with the ships;
hastily fleeing that disconsolate Bosporus shore.

IV. 
The last night after a thousand years, the last night of a thousand tears,  
The final rites of Christ are taken, there is no greater honor than to die;
to die for Christ, to die for Country, to die for Sovereign, to die for Family,
A calm stillness descends, everyone accepts the end, there are no more fears,
Each man embraces, hugs his children and wife, tears in the matrimonial eye; 
for they both know, he will not that night survive,
He hopes for salvation from rape and slavery, for his beloved dears,
Each man to his final post, knowing it his last but determined to die well and here,
Determined history will not find them wanting, when St Paul judges their lives.

The Emperor kneels at the alter with his beloved wife, he makes obeisance and prays for strength;
may I be worthy of all those that carried my name before me, let me be the torch bearer 
of their eternal flame, he conjures the image of their founding father, Constantine the Great,
He rises and steals one last kiss; their fingers not wanting to part, lingering at length, 
The last touch he will have with her in this mortal life; he breaks away, swiftly turns 
and departs for his allotted fate. 

Pointing towards Mecca, his bowing head touching the mat, Mehmed fervently prays;
may the one God and his Prophet’s fame, in the infidel’s Citadel be praised, 
The City and the buildings are mine, the women and icons yours but only he can offer you
eternal youth in the valley of truth, where his holy banner is raised.
The omens are read, Dervishes whirl, banners are unfurled; it will be the twenty ninth of May. 

V. 
The church bell sounds the death knell, now the wait is over at last. 
The horns blast, the host comes on fast, the pounding drums of war,
With paradise in their eyes, they smash against the wall, the defenders holding fast,
Wave after wave, always more, the cries of fear and pain echo and roar,
All is blood and horror, smoke and thunder, searing balls of death whistle past,
Crushed and hemmed, sword to sword, muscle and limb are twist and tore.

Scaling ladders, underground sappers, surely the end is near, 
They’re on the ramparts now, furiously hacking, heroically slashing,
The end is now here, they die with all courage and no fear, 
Constantine sheds his royal cloak, into the breach, his sword flashing,
He collapses under a hail of mighty blows, his honour he does not smear; 
for he, the last of the noble race of Rome, for him no one to shed a tear.