Warned by the blare of horns, Kilij Arslan,
looking seaward from Civitot, rubbed his eyes.
As light of dawn fingered the broad sky,
he thought he saw an army crawling
over the level ground that issued from a pass
between the hills. Mounted men in the lead
proceeded slowly. The noble morning sun
picked up the gleam of armor. As they drew near
Arslan saw hordes of rag-tag followers –
men, women, children, even babes in arms –
a trudging multitude, a sea of moving people
carrying banners of Rome and of Europe’s kings.
Over all loomed the sign of the sad Cross
upon which Jesus (Allah bless his name!)
was crucified. Arslan whispered the word
so dreaded by his father – “Franj!” He gathered
his men. They did not know they watched
the approach of two hundred years of madness.
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