An Empire's Death Poem by Tor Magnor Solvang

An Empire's Death.

The year was fourteen fifty-three,
May twenty-ninth, a day to flee.
But one stayed, with courage bright,
Against the coming, endless night.

Constantinople, city old,
A story bravely to be told.
Mehmed's army, vast and grim,
Besieged the walls, right to the brim.

Seven thousand stood to fight,
Against an overwhelming might.
Constantine, the Emperor true,
Asked Europe for a helping crew.

But West was blind, and help was slow,
A few came, faint and low.
He stayed, although the odds were dire,
And fueled his men with burning fire.

That night, in Sophia's grace,
Two faiths met in that sacred place.
A last communion, shared with dread,
Knowing soon, they'd all be dead.

At dawn, the walls began to crack,
The Ottoman army surging back.
Constantine shed his royal dress,
To meet his fate, no more, no less.

'The city falls, but I still live! '
His final words he bravely did give.
Then vanished in the bloody fray,
Where empires crumble and decay.

His body lost, his spirit free,
Sophia turned, for all to see,
From church to mosque, a change profound,
Istanbul rose on Roman ground.

He had a ship, a chance to flee,
But chose instead to fight and be
The final Roman, brave and bold,
A story in the ages told.

The Empire died, its long life done,
With Constantine, its fallen son.
He stood his ground, he faced the end,
A hero, faithful to the very end.