~ Daniil Andreev

The predawn breeze caresses eternally sacred stones.
The muezzin raises his hands, ready to chant the adhan
over somber Galilee, where time quietly flows
through Cana's and Bethlehem's ashes. He calls: "Allah-il-Allah".

Like a rose mirage, Damascus groves and temples
will shimmer. Chador-clad women bead gems, never in rush.
The breeze blows now and then, and waves gently bring their favors;
the summoning trumpets of Angel, Lion, and Eagle are hushed.

Yet, fishing nets remain wistful, just as when the Lamb was slain;
the Crusaders' coffins slumber, steeped in cedar and myrrh.
And crowds of motley supplicants time and time again
will scurry to His Sepulcher from different ends of the earth.