Separation and the tolling of the bells

Each bell and each of the muezzins' daily prayers toll out my separation.  Each bell jars me and reminds me.  Nothing has changed and everything has changed.  Put up a block, a wall, a tower of stones, an erection of bricks, a mountain in my way.  Any thing of substance, a fence with barbed wire!  The blue day and happy bird song slaps me hard across my face and leaves me breathless.  Jerusalem of Gold is not here amongst the minnarets, golden domes and wailing walls, but in a shabby row of flats in west Auckland.