Translated by Richard Stoneman

The roof is made of golden-plated tiles

From which a sparkling blaze of gold sends beams

No more supportable to human eyes

Than Phaeton at his noon-day halt in spring.

When every crag is bleached gold. Yes, my king,

When he had brought the whole world to agree,

And gathered wealth from Rome, and native wealth,

Thought no stone honour worthy of the temple

Of great, immortal, God, in whom proud Rome

Had placed her hopes entirely. Silver too

He did not stint to pour forth. Sunium’s crag

And Mount Pangaeum bled their silver veins

And treasured heaps of mighty kings were broached.

Where, in the east, the great perimeter

Enclosed the shrine of bloodless sacrifice,

No ivory, no bronze or carved stone stood,

But all the aisle was lined with brightest silver.

Not only on the sanctuary walls,

Where the initiate is enthroned, but even

The columns were entirely cased in silver,

Shining with leaping light, a dozen strong.

In

Simoni Zafiropoulos, ed.

New York: Harry N. Abrams, Inc., Publishers, 1993, p 69.

Translated by Richard Stoneman

God rings the bells, earth rings the bells, the sky itself is ringing,

The Holy Wisdom, the great church, is ringing out the message,

Four hundred sounding boards sound out, and two and sixty bells,

For every bell there is a priest, for every priest a deacon.

To the left the emperor is singing, to the right the patriarch,

And all the columns tremble with the thunder of the chant.

And as the emperor began the hymns to the Cherubim,

A voice came down to them from the sky, from the archangel’s mouth:

Cease the Cherubic hymn, and let the sacred objects bow;

Priests, take the holy things away, extinguish all the candles:

God’s Will has made our city now into a Turkish city.

But send a message to the West, and let them send three ships:

The first to take the cross, the second to remove the Gospel,

The third, the finest shall rescue for us our holy altar.

Lest it all to those dogs, and they defile it and dishonour it.

The Holy Virgin was distressed, the very icons wept.

Be calm, beloved lady, be calm and do not weep for them"

Though years, though centuries shall pass, they shall be yours again.

In

Simoni Zafiropoulos, ed.

New York: Harry N. Abrams, Inc., Publishers, 1993, p 70.