Sunday, August 30, 2015

Slowing Can’t Be Right

Slowing Can’t Be Right 

How much of all our suffering is due
To speeding when we should be going slow?
We work and eat and couple now at speed
And rarely notice all the harm we do.

So some can thrive, with sense and conscience stilled,
While others suffer from their actions or
Perceive the things that go unheeded while
We're busy rushing through our hectic lives.

We live our lives of loneliness and fear
And seek our consolations where we can.
The sun may rise, the little birds may sing
And yet we sleep or go to work in dread.

We live in isolation, torn apart
By all the tempests blowing through our lives:
The storms of Nature and the works of Man—
What others do and what we do ourselves.

We’ve lost the arts of tolerance and fun.
We turn away from relatives and friends
And seek our entertainment and our worth
In things and places distant from our earths.

We learn to race, forgetting how to slow.
We spend our lives acquiring knowledge, things—
While losing wisdom and that freedom true
Of living like the ones still human do.

You’ll find them in the forests and the hills,
In regions far removed, on arctic ice
And in the places of the scorching sun,
Beleaguered now as they are pushed to die.

They do as belly and as conscience bids.
They live and die in goodly company.
They have no money. Their possessions, they
Can carry on their backs as lightest weight.

They pay no rent to landlords or to banks.
They answer to no bosses, being free.
There is, among them, neither “high” nor “low”.
They’re born, they smile and weep, and then they go.

And some might say that I romanticize
The lives of those that dwell in poverty.
But I reply, “What wealth could ever buy
The gems of love and of sincerity?”

And others still might say, “We disagree.
We would not trade our lives for such as these.
Besides, there isn’t room, upon this Earth,
To live as once we did, in misery.”

So each may view the grass that’s distant as
Of greener hue or less than that beneath.
And we might say, “The world is changing, so
We cannot now remain as once we were.”
But should we then surrender to the flow
That takes us where some others want us to?
Or should we say, “We still are beings free,
Who choose our lives to be as they could be?”


The one that halts, when all around stampede,
Might well be trampled on—and even die.
But when the wiser start to slow and turn,
We slowly could return to clarity.

The question is, “Will sanity prevail
Before our madness breeds catastrophe?
And some might say, “We’re told that’s happened, yet
We do not slow, for slowing can’t be right.”

2015 August 30th, Sun., 3:28 pm
(first two stanzas added Sep. 2nd, Wed.)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York

Thursday, August 27, 2015

Song of the Beings

Note: To view the pictures as in a gallery, in a somewhat bigger and clearer format, please single-click on any image.  You can click on the thumbnails at the bottom to move through the gallery.  To return to this post, click on the white X in the black background to the gallery.  Thanks. -- Arjun

This is a nonsense song (with perhaps some sense in it) that started from a phrase used by É.P., an Irish-American, in a "conversation" that  he had with me (A.J., an Indian-American) as we were both commenting on a Facebook post.

Part of that conversation is reproduced directly below, followed by the song.

É.P.: In a previous life, I was a journalist and editor. I also spent 15 years in education. Triple undergrad--English, Journalism, Speech. You're singing the song of my people. ;-)

A.J.: A phrase in your comment seemed to have struck a chord in the strings in my head (!).  Those strings started humming and this is what they said. (See "Song of the Beings" down below.)  It is a lot of nonsense and a bit of sense, mixed together in a stew of a song.


Song of the Beings 

“You’re singing the song of my people.” you said.
I wish that it really were true.
I have heard of the songs of the peoples and yet
The songs that I know are so few.

There are songs of the nations, there are songs of the trades,
There are songs of the forests and seas.
There are songs that we’ve learned from the singing of birds,
There are songs that we sing on our knees.

But in truth they’re the same. It’s the spirit that sings
Through the whales and the crickets and men.
So perhaps it is true that I’m singing the song
Of the trade that you cherish and ken.

Let us sing then of words—of their sense and their freight,
Of their music and rhythm and rhyme.
Let us sing then of birds and of dawn and of dusk,
And the flowing, that’s ceaseless, of time.

Jiminy Cricket

Let us sing then of Ireland and Egypt and then
Let us sing of the land that we’re in—
Of its past and its present and future and all
Of its beauty and glory and sin.

Let us sing then the dirges for those that have died,
Let us sing too the paeans of hope.
Let us sing with emotion and yet let us pray
That there’s reason that’s left in the dope.

Sand Creek Massacre, Colorado, 1864

Let the little ones dance to the strains of our song.
Let us ask, of the plant and the beast,
That they join in our song, that we all sing along,
For our song, of all songs, is the least.

It’s the least of the songs, it can hardly be heard,
It’s a whisper that seems to have died.
Yet hark—it arises, and softly we hear
It whisper, “Your bosses have lied.”

Donald Trump, real estate mogul and Republican presidential candidate
U.S.A., 2015

It’s the songs of the beings, by “leaders” misled,
By “lords” and by “owners” enslaved.
It’s the song that the horses and asses and pigs
And cattle and humans have craved.

a policeman arresting a fugitive
Greensboro, North Carolina, U.S.A., 2013

It’s the song that delights, it’s the song that desponds,
It’s the song of the present and past.
It’s the song we’ve been trying to sing, but we couldn’t,
That we all are now singing at last.

It’s the song of the chickens, the ducks and the bees,
It’s the song of the goats and the sheep.
It’s the song of the peasants and workers and see—
It is light, it is dark, it is deep.

Modern Slavery, 2013

It’s the song of the tribes that have vanished and those
That are seeing the end of their hope.
It’s the song of the dad who has taken to drink,
And the mom at the end of her rope.

It’s the song of the one who is hoping to die,
It’s the song of the struggle to live.
It’s the song of the wounded, in body or heart
Or in both, who has tried to forgive.


It’s the song of the millet and barley and wheat,
It’s the song of the rice and the corn.
It’s the song of the seed that is springing to life,
It’s the song of the one that’s reborn.

It’s the song of the prey that is eaten alive,
It’s the song of the predator too.
It’s the song of the knowledge that they both are the same,
That I now have been singing to you.

It’s the songs of the beings, from the starting of time.
It’s the song of the things that are dead.
It’s the song of the courage that gives us our strength,
It’s the song of the feeling of dread.

Let us sing, let us sing, for we’ve only a while,
And then we’ll be singing no more.
Let us sing, let us sing. When we’re gone, they will smile
And sing like we did in their yore.

2015 August 26th, Wed., 10:48 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York

Note: To view the pictures as in a gallery, in a somewhat bigger and clearer format, please single-click on any image.  You can click on the thumbnails at the bottom to move through the gallery.  To return to this post, click on the white X in the black background to the gallery.  Thanks. -- Arjun

Friday, August 21, 2015



I was before I was and I will be when I am not.
And so it is with you and all who’re born to live and die.
The future, past and present are as one and so are all
The worlds that could have been or could be, here or there or not.
2015 August 21, Fri, 3:01 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York

Wednesday, August 19, 2015

On Human Nature

On Human Nature  (Draft)
Human Evolution

If we would praise our species’ virtues, then
we can’t be silent on its vices.  Those
who’re blind to one or other might portray
the human race as one of angels or
of devils—yet the truth is in between.

We’ve made our gods in human likeness and
our demons too are modeled on ourselves.
Perhaps these are in all that lives, and yet
we see them clearest in our closest tribe—
the one that’s human, touched by grace and sin.

We even die for others. So do ants.
But humans can transcend the bounds of kin
and even species—much as dogs might do.
We’re not unique—and yet this quality
of sacrifice of self’s a sainted thing.

And yet we murder, pillage, torture, rape—
as other species do, except we’ve moved
to make these things our hallmarks. We will kill
for no good reason, using devilish means.
We’ve laid to waste a planet, with a shrug.

So—gods or devils?  Sainted angels or
a demon's spawn of scoundrels? We are both.
Though surely what’s in us must be, in part,
in other species too, our qualities
of evil, unrestrained, are perilous.

It’s said that humans reason. Yet our hearts
are swayed too easily by passions and
our heads are addled by assumptions false.
We rarely question those we follow, as
we move in mobs and ape our conquerors.

And yet our human nature still remains
the thing we have to work with. That is all.
No theory that exalts a class or race
above another or assigns it blame
will hold if we inspect its basic claims.

And those who say that we should educate,
uplift the masses—they forget that they
are often as misled or more than those
they seek to “raise”.  Let other beings be.
Look to yourself, if you would dare to see.
2015 August 19th, Wed., 10:55 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York 

Dawn and Dusk—II

Note: To view the pictures as in a gallery, in a somewhat bigger and clearer format, please single-click on any image.  You can click on the thumbnails at the bottom to move through the gallery.  To return to this post, click on the white X in the black background to the gallery.  Thanks. -- Arjun

Dawn and Dusk—II 

Daybreak at the Devils Courthouse Overlook, North Carolina
We can rise when stars are shining and the dawn has yet to be.
We can walk, if we are near it, to the dark and waiting sea.
And as we stand and shiver by the ocean’s side we see
The light that’s slowly spreading, as the stars and planets flee.

We can stand and watch the sunset, when the west is all aglow.
We can see the colors fading at the ending of the show.
We can feel a humor ebbing and another rising slow
As the tide of day is leaving and the stars begin to show.

The sunrise and the sunset are the tick and tock of time,
For the waxing and the waning of the moon are done in mime,
But at dusk you’ll hear the crickets—and the sparrows greet the dawn.
The months are then the minutes of this clock that we are on.

The seasons are the hours, so as winter cedes to spring,
You can hear the bells are chiming. And when swallows take to wing
You will know the hour is autumn, so there’s winter coming by.
To the sun that ruled in summer, they have quite a way to fly.
The scents of dusk and dawning portend the sun and moon—
The jasmine of the midnight, the fragrant rose of noon.
And we need to greet the sunrise and to see the end of day,
So the clocks that we are born with do not slowly go astray.

We are beings of the daylight.  We need shelter in the night.
We are frightened by the darkness, we are brightened by the light.
So the sunset and the sunrise are the beat to which we rhyme,
And they’ve called to us with tidings, through all remembered time.

Sunset, Pensacola, Florida

2015 August 19th, Wed., 2:15 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
Recent Related Poems 

Tuesday, August 18, 2015



There’s a time before the nightfall,
when the heavens still are lit
and the western sky is glowing,
as the east is growing dark—
when the wind is but a whisper,
as it ruffles trees and dies,
but the crickets call in chorus,
as they clamor and subside.

That’s the time that we are silent,
as we listen and we watch,
as we turn and travel homeward,
reflecting on our days—
the day that’s just departing
and those that long have left,
as the sunset turns to gloaming—
and from work we turn to rest.

The greens of trees will darken—
and soon they’ll near to black,
and we’ll see them silhouetted
against the glowing sky—
with the lace of treetop leaflets
waving in the breeze—
and we’ll pause perhaps to watch this—
and breathe perhaps our sighs.

The household cats will waken,
as their ancient instincts call.
and we’ll see the wary felines,
as they’re stalking through the dark.
Then our instincts too will prickle,
and we'll pause to draw a breath.
Through the eons, we have traveled—
and the dusk, we’ve daily met.

View from Lighthouse Landing, Grand Rivers, Kentucky
by Sherry Boulton
And so even in the city
we can meet with dawn and dusk
and be moved by scents of morning
and by evening’s drifting musk.
These are times when we transition,
and we sense the flow of time—
that might yet appear suspended,
as the stars begin to shine.

The twilight is the lovers’ time—
and time for those rejected
to feel anew the hurt they felt,
as daylight ebbs to dark.
The dusk is full of memory—
with ghosts of long ago.
We then recall those visions
that the sun had chased away.

So every grief forgotten
and every sorrow learned
by us and those before us—
and those who’re still unborn,
we might perceive at nightfall,
for we lower then our guards.
And yet the dusk is healing,
as it enters in our hearts.

For every dusk is dying,
and death awaits us all—
and death is liberation—
like autumn’s leaves, we fall.
It takes away our worries,
our sorrows and our grief.
So dusk and death are fellows—
for both are best of thieves.

2015 August 18th, Tue. 8:39 pm
on the steps of a house, facing west
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York  

Saturday, August 15, 2015

In the Rapids of the City

Note:  The snapshot pictures in this post were taken with my new cellphone, which is still an antique. The pictures may be viewed as in a gallery, in a somewhat larger, clearer format, by single-clicking on any image.  To return to this post, click on the white X at the top right of the black background in the gallery view.

In the Rapids of the City

Tilted tower and traffic, Whitehall Street, Manhattan
2015 August. 13th, Thu. evening  © A. Janah

In the hubbub and the hurry, we might lose our peace of mind.
Yet when time is ours in plenty, then that peace is hard to find.

For the trauma often lingers—and corrodes us from within.
So our Ava’s long departed, yet we’re paying for her sin.
Man on cellphone, walking dog
New Utrecht Ave., Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
2015 Aug. 14th, Fri. afternoon.  © A. Janah
There are things that we have hidden, where we cannot see or hear,
For we sense they are forbidden or impossible to bear.
There’s the horror that is wartime, there’s the horrid state of work.
And we need from these our distance, or we’ll surely go berserk.
So the answers we are seeking, to the questions never asked,
We have found and then forgotten.  Let them never be unmasked.

Two towers, Whitehall Street, Manhattan
2015 Aug. 13th, Thu., late afternoon.  © A. Janah

The summer sees its end, as on the streets
The browned and withered leaves foretell the fall.
While walking long through Brooklyn, I have paused
To sit in light and shade within a “park”.

A bit of green, a glimpse of blue is all
It takes to soothe a weary, harried soul.
They bring the walking dead to life again.
And yet, how many are denied the two!

Branches, leaves and sky, Milestone Park, Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
2015 August 14th, Fri. afternoon.  © A. Janah

A wounded dog, escaping from its plight,
Will pause, if given a chance, to lick its wounds.
So humans do as well.  And yet we know,
A wounded mind might best be left alone.

I sip my tea and chew my pretzel as
I mull on my defeats.  When victories
Are gone, philosophies are left—along
With all the aches of body and of mind.

Veterans' memorialWater Street, Manhattan 
situated, interestingly, right by the Teachers' Retirement Service office 
2015 August 13th, Thu. afternoon.  © A. Janah

When in Manhattan, in the city’s roar,
I thought I heard a little, quiet sound.
But that was yesterday.  In Brooklyn now,
I sit upon a bench and look around.

I see the little sparrows hop. They pick
At seeds, and quickly dart aloft in fright.
A pigeon flies across—a blur of wings.
A squirrel climbs atop a green-lit tree.

The little children run around and play.
The adults group themselves at cards or chess,
Or quietly walk around, or sit like me—
Contented, for a while, to simply be.

Girl riding a bike, Milestone Park, Brooklyn
2015 Aug. 14th, Fri. afternoon. © A. Janah
A taste of peace, a sip of quietude—
And I am rested.  Yet I wonder still
About that sound I heard but yesterday—
That seemed so close and yet so far away.

When we’re defeated, then we might perceive
The shadowed things that we had overlooked.
Amidst the gemstones, lit with wisdom, are
The scorpions that we fear to understand.

Shadows from the elevated D/M track, New Utrecht Ave.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, 2015 Aug. 14th, Thu. afternoon
© A. Janah

At times like this, my life, from birth till now,
I see as in a slideshow on a screen—
A sign, perhaps, it’s time to stop and then
Begin anew, until this comes again.

Our lives have acts and scenes, as in a play,
Or else it seems we’re authors—and our books
Have chapters that have ends we can’t control.
Yet end we must, while leaving loose the ends.

Bench, Milestone Park, Brooklyn
2015 Aug. 14th, Fri. afternoon. © A. Janah
In the rapids of the city, when the roar was all around,
I had thought I’d heard a tinkle—a whisper of a sound.
In the shimmer of the summer, I’ve been sitting in the park,
And the whisper in the silence is the calling of the dark.
At Milestone Park, Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
2015 Aug. 14th, Fri. afternoon. © A. Janah
There are things that we’ve forgotten, so we cannot see or hear,
For we sense they are forbidden or impossible to bear.
There’s the shame and guilt of childhood, there’s the hurt and rage within.
There’s the grief and there’s the sorrow that can issue from our kin.
So the answers we were seeking, for the questions rarely asked,
We had found and then had hidden.  Give us strength, when we’re unmasked.

Two towers, Water and Whitehall Streets, Manhattan
2015 Aug. 13th. late afternoon.  © A. Janah
2015 August 14th, Friday, around 5 pm.
Milestone Park, Bensonhurst Brooklyn, New York
(fourth, twelfth, and twentieth [second from last] 
stanzas added Aug. 15th, Sat afternoon; cellphone
images added August. 16th, Sun. morning)
Note:  The snapshot pictures in this post were taken with my new cellphone, which is still an antique. The pictures may be viewed as in a gallery, in a somewhat larger, clearer format, by single-clicking on any image.  To return to this post, click on the white X at the top right of the black background in the gallery view.

Wednesday, August 12, 2015

Blowing Dust

Blowing Dust (Draft)

It’s difficult, and yet it’s best, to learn
That all we have and everything we’ve built,
We each will lose—that all will be as dust—
The dust that blows, to which we will return.

And yet, when we and those we know are gone,
The birds will chirp to greet again the dawn.
And crickets will be loud at eventide,
As one by one the stars begin to show.
A long procession winds its way through time.
How many went before upon our paths?
How many still to come?  We walk alone
Amidst the crowds, and yet in company.

So as I wipe away the dust that clings
To books I’m packing, those I’ve read and those
I hope to read before I lose my sight,
I wonder at the dust—and wonder more.

Whose dust is this?  How many beings past
Are touched by me, who cannot feel my touch?
Could books attract the dust of scholars who
Had loved their books as I do mine—and more?

A foolish thought—and yet I wonder where
My sister’s ashes, that the river took,
Are wandering—and if perhaps, by chance,
A particle might settle on her book.

My parents’ ashes have been waiting long.
And still I hope that if I can retire,
I’ll free them, like I did my sister’s, while
I leave a sprinkling on the book they wrote.


My sister and my parents could not see,
In print, the books on which they’d spent their years.
And I but rarely leaf through them, because
I fear I’ll stain the pages with my tears.
A book, when extant, might extend a life
Beyond the death of body and of mind.
As books are read, the authors come alive
And speak to those that death has left behind.

And it’s the same with photographs and more—
And all the work we did that’s left a mark—
Perhaps within a mind or heart—before
Our turn to turn again to blowing dust.

How few are those, who have their books or art
Or other free creations published, known
Beyond a tiny circle?  Each yet leaves
Their little ripples that subside with time.

And that’s enough.  And even if we die
And none remembers that we were, it is
Sufficient that we lived our little while—
No more, no less than ants or leaves—and died.
Our mornings and our evenings come in turn.
We’re born to be interred or else to burn.
And in-between, we do what beings do,
To leave behind, perhaps, a trace or two.
A mortal should accept the mortal fate—
Which is to vanish, be deleted, go.
For all we were and all we did will be
As this—the dust on which I gently blow.

2015 August 11th, Tue, 8:15 pm
(fourth-from-last and third-from-last stanzas
 added August 12th, Wed. morning, third 
stanza added August 14th, Fri. morning)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York

Sunday, August 9, 2015

Dawn and Dusk

Dawn and Dusk  

Seven Arriving at Bliss, 2008 Jan.

The sunset and the sunrise—these are times
when the changing light appears to touch
the swirls within us.  So our moods can rise
and ebb, like ocean tides, with light and dark.

For most of us, the vision of the dawn
awakens hope and gives us strength to strive.
But when the sun is setting, then we sense
emotions darker, and we turn within.

And so this waxing and this waning is
a dance that weaves its way among the rest,
as yang and yin and day and night entwine
to make the fabric that we know as self.
We fear the dark, for we were once the prey,
descended from the trees, who could not see
the predators that woke to hunt at dusk.
And being apes, we still revive with dawn.


But now the workplace and the home are lit
when night has fallen on the land and sea.
We cannot see the stars, the galaxy,
behold the planets, catch the meteor’s streak…

And oftentimes, we never see the sun—
because we run to work before it climbs,
and venture back at dusk or later still—
while those on night-shifts sleep their days away.


Can we escape our natures that were built
through ages when we lived beneath the sky?
Can we adapt to be like bats that climb
at dusk from caves to forage through the night?

I do not know.  We’re plastic, we can flow.
We venture where no other beings go.
And yet our genes and instincts still remain.
To alter these, we need the centuries.

So when I could, I tried to greet the dawn
and view the dusk, with self as offering.
Alas, I now but rarely see the stars
and only in the summers feel the sun.

And so, I’ve lost, with others, much of that
which woke the life and soothed the soul in turn.
I'll try again to meet with dawn and dusk,
so I can be what I was meant to be.

Queensboro Plaza Sunset, seen from the elevated 7 line, 2008 Jan.

2015 August 6th, Thu. (first four stanzas)
& August 9th, Sun. (last six stanzas)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York



When faced with all the madness of our times—
the racing, debt and isolation, some
succumb to fear and then are paralyzed—
or else they run, bewildered, through their years. 

But others, savvier, can learn the game
and play it shrewdly to attain their ends.
And these become, quite often, those who herd
and drive the others, stepping up the pace.

Until we free ourselves, we’re doomed to be
as cogs upon the wheels of fear and greed.
But when we try to struggle loose, we find
we’re crushed—as would a cog that’s not of steel. 
It’s only when the juggernaut is slowed,
as one by one we see and we resist—
it’s only then that we at last can be,
from this, our ceaseless whirling bondage, free.

2015 August 6th, Thu. 6:15 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York

Note:  Three pictures follow.  You can click on any one to see all three in a gallery.  The second image will be enlarged, the third even more. Click on the white X at the top right of the black background to return to the post.

At the end of the post are links to some clips from the film "Modern Times", in which Charlie Chaplin's character attempts to fit into the industrial age.  I might add more as I find them.


Joining the Labor Force

Chariot Wheel, Konarak Temple, Orissa, India.   Patrik M. Loeff, 2008

Clips from Chaplin's movie Modern Times

1) a short clip (14:43) with excellent clarity of picture and sound:
2) a very short clip (1:49) on a central episode in 1, with picture quality not the best: 

3) Modern Times (1936)—the full movie (1:23:17)—but with speech dubbed in French:

Tuesday, August 4, 2015

A Space for Life

A Space for Life  

Boat on a Lake / New Day

Of all the madness in the world, the worst
could be the juggernauts that Man has built.
For all the rest allows a space for life
and even beauty.  What we’ve made does not.

And now we learn there have been volunteers,
as private enterprise extends its reach,
who'd spend their days as colonists on Mars
and so could not return to lives on Earth,

Perhaps in time they'll build the mines and ports,
so commerce then can reach towards the stars.
The universe awaits the gods that we
presume to be, whose presence greens this Earth.


A husband writes, defending what his wife
has chosen for herself.  She’ll go to live
in hutments built upon that distant orb.
Their grownup kids and he will stay on Earth.

And some might ask, “Would you then bar a wife
and mother, but allow her man to go?”
I answer, “What’s disturbing is the fact
that even mothers now are not immune.”

Our cities are like sores upon the Earth
from which the pus and putrid fluids flow
that then infect the humans who go mad
and do the bidding of satanic minds.


Life feeds on life and all the slaughter is
forever with us.  Is that spark divine,
that gives a being life, the Devil’s gift?
I do not know, and so I ask you this.

And you will answer in your silences
and I in mine.  I walk beside the sea,
beneath the sky—or in the wooded hills—
and seem to breathe the tranquil air of peace.

And yet, within that sea, and in those woods,
there’s life devouring life—and ceaselessly.
And Man has built his world of factories
that spreads its ravage and its ugliness.


There still is beauty, kindness, love and more.
Could that be still the Devil’s handiwork?
I do not know, but if indeed it is,
we might forgive the evil he has wrought.
We’re like the leaves that live for just a while
and then return to that which does not live.
But leaves retain that beauty and that grace
which we alas have lost in our disdain.
A space for life—and also, space for that
which does not live—could that be granted still?
I do not know.  The one I know to ask
is Man—who’s none at end but you and me.

I pray that human minds and hearts return
to what they were when we were more like apes.
We still had evil and had madness then,
but there were spaces left for sanity.

To whom then should we pray except ourselves?
Within us dwells a better nature yet.
What stress was it that caused its twin to rise
to spread the evil and the ugliness?

It’s sanity that curbs the madness that
aspires to rule the planets and the stars.
Let Mars repose in barren majesty.
Allow the healing of afflicted Earth.
2015 August 4th, Tue., 6:18 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
Boat on a Lake / New Day