This poem originally appeared in Pablo Lennis in 1996.
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All materials copyright 1996-1997 by their respective
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Searching for Byzantium
by Jerry H. Jenkins
I don't remember when or how I found
a hint of that secluded wondrous place
lost in stars, where mysteries abound,
whose spires and peacock sunsets, gilt and grace
and calm celestial music's soul-deep sound
were said to be enfolded deep in space.
I held its hologram in silicon;
its image pulled me on and farther on.
I've drifted through dim star-trails, old, alone.
The journey has been long and I would rest
among a race more like me than my own,
a race whose sun forever circles west,
whose souls inhabit armatures of bone,
whose lives with love, and even death, are blessed.
And I would find their city and be done
with emptiness between dark cindered suns.
Sustained by hope and hopes to be fulfilled,
drawn to an end I thought would never come,
I've wandered through dead universes stilled
and empty, silent as a broken drum,
and navigated shoals of starlight spilled
in some unknown, unnamed millennium
from galaxies whose light is now their past,
and I have found that sacred place at last.
Surrounded by a strange, familiar throng,
I give myself with calm finality,
and burn with warmth of love, serene and strong.
I am the gathering host that welcomes me
as I am ushered in with holy song
to what has been, and is, and is to be,
and merge with all my lives as I become
the next one born to seek Byzantium.