A strident stir through dust and history,
Clambering, mistakenly, up forgotten paths,
I reached the summit among the mountains
And rested on stonework pillaged by generations.
The Elephant, majestic, stood above,
Its snow-clad rock hump melting
As a biting sun shone down.
The muezzin echoed in the valley.
Here the Cross was brought from far
Into another Promised Land
By another promised people,
A race much slaughtered and abused.
This was their weathered centre, near to heaven,
But, like all centres near to heaven,
It had to fall from grace,
To be left as a testament to struggle.
Not for the first time, I reflect:
The course of history is the important fact,
The course of memory unclear,
The ruin much greater than the act.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem