When night zephyrs raise fairy dust and lay
it finely upon my writing desk, that’s when
I sense history’s presence in my home.

All is still but for the rustling of a Carob’s branches
against the rain gutters. I perceive easterly
zephyrs whisper tales of distant events:
Turkey’s fairy chimneys take form before my mind’s eye;
I see zealous Crusaders—thousands of children,
barely in their puberty—swarming like locusts
through fertile valleys nestled among cultivated
mountainsides. Starvation compelled most
to abandon their quest for the Holy Land
and return; others were taken to slave markets
never to return to France, Germany, and Italy.

I gaze at countless pigeons nesting in stone
cavities and on shelves, flying back and forth,
with wings stretched forth like those of angels,
gliding effortlessly, buoyed by Turkey’s hot winds.
Are these the souls of long-lost, misguided children?

The breeze subsides, and as I close this chapter
of the Children’s Crusade, I seem to hear young voices:
“Lord God, exalt Christianity.
Lord God, restore to us the true cross.”