Hagia Sophia

This body is not my temple.


Ransacked — the pillaging came and went,

and here I am in the dust, grieving

the child that was lost.


Yet still I remember her:

she hides in me, in the lines of my hands—

I can still hold the skin she lived in, once.


She is no phoenix: she cannot return.

But I will rebuild her, Hagia Sophia,

with holy wisdom, and the Ottomans,

when they greet me once again,

will know they cannot touch this marble,

these walls: we are glacial cold.


I am no temple: but I will become as noble,

as strong — as holy — as pure.


I will become again.

This poem is about: 
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741