Planet

   

Planet

  

Upon this planet with its blues and greens,

Its many shades of browns and other hues,

And all the other sights that daylight brings—

That ever changing light, from dawn to dusk,

With shadows stark on golden afternoons,

With clouds and peaks of white against the blues—

  

Yes, all of this and all the night’s delight,

With planets, moon, and stars and galaxy

Revealed for those afar from urban glare—

Upon this planet I have lived and seen

These wonders—glowing, timeless and serene—

Or so it seemed, amidst the constant flux

That marks our lives upon this spinning Earth. 

 

I’m grateful, yes, for all these sights I’ve seen—

For all the solace from the blues and greens

And other visions that remain with me

Of this, our planet, till I cease to be.

  

Amidst the madness, these have kept me sane.

Amidst the heartless, these have nourished me—

As have the actions and the care of those

Who see beyond the self and see within. 

  

These give me light and hope, amidst the sin

And all the darkness of the world we’re in.

These give me faith—and give me courage still. 

   

2026 January 19th, Mon.

Berkeley, California  

 

 

 

Darkness—and Light

 
Darkness—and Light

We need to see and so to understand

How pettiness and peeve can overwhelm
Our better instincts, blur and blind our sight,
And bend our reason towards disastrous ends.
So conscience dies and truth is buried deep,
As endless lies and endless wars extend
Disaster zones in which the children wail
As parents weep or turn to remnant faith.

The gods and goddesses of ancient yore
Took part, we’re told, in all our grievous sins
Of lying, cheating, loot and murder—yes,
And even now we bow to Mammon’s will
And execute his lethal schemes and  worse—
As both the godless and the theists claim
Their rights to slaughters that will never end.

In all this darkness, growing deeper, might
There still be light that waits for more at dawn?
There surely is, as mind and heart can see
If only turned and opened towards this light—
That strives at every time and every place
To heal, console, and give us more of strength
That still sustains the soul in all that lives.

Behold the darkness, viewing it in full.
Observe the remnant light and cherish it.
The cynics and the ones defeated spurn
The hope that’s offered and the needed fight,
And in so doing aid the dark’s advance.
So recognize this trait, within yourself
As well as others. Understand the plight

Of those who’re wounded, yet sustain the light.

2025 July 5th, Sat. 
Berkeley, California

Bay Lights

Bay Lights

The past few days were hot and humid both, as the dog days often are, this time of year.

I’d wondered if the breezes by the ocean might be cooler than the air that rose from heated streets.

And so tonight I walked down to the Bay and saw the distant lights reflected from the tops of waves.  These swept towards the shore and softly splashed—again and yet again.

And all the rest was dark, as waters are on moonless nights—with stardust spread above.

But city lights had hidden much. 

I only saw the stars of Coney and of Staten Island, with the glowworms crawling on the Verrazano  Bridge—as fireflies slowly rose and arced from JFK.

And faraway, beyond the Jersey shore, from time to time I saw the lightning flash and set ablaze a bank of clouds—without a sound.

And walking back, before the thunderstorm, I saw the headlights speeding on the Belt, in obvious haste to go to—where they went.

The breezes?  Yes, they’d cooled me down a bit.  They freshened as I walked towards my home.

I’d read that LED’s make more of light and less of heat.  On Brooklyn’s sleeping streets, they’d turned the night, in parts, to pallid day.

The storm?  It never came.  It still is hot.

But I remember walking through the night and seeing then the lights, by Gravesend Bay.

And that is still relief.

2018 August 1st, Wed.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York.

Today

Today 

  


Along the journey of my life, I came
To a place unmapped and so without a name.
And there I wandered—lost, confused and torn,
Not knowing where to go or whom to blame.

And all the yearnings and regrets were there
And all the worries that we humans bear.
Their constant clamor so perturbed my mind,
For what was present, I could hardly care.

But then, when I had burned for long in hell,
And what was right or wrong could hardly tell,
From deepest dark, a flash of insight came
That gave me light and made my being well.

******

And I will now, with feeble phrases, try
To tell you what I saw, when death was nigh,
That surely saved my life and gave me peace—
Enough at least to give me strength to cry.

The tears of men are scarce and rarely seen,
And some may deem that vision as obscene.
And so, in private, these are mostly shed,
By those whose public faces seem serene.

And yet, that weeping, when it comes, may bring
Its own relief, as all that woe can sing
That till that time was mute and caged within,
But now, towards the open sky, takes wing.
 
******

Oh yesterdays of happiness or grief,
Tomorrows built of chance or blind belief—
Allow today, with all its pleasure-pain,
To bloom and yield its hue and fragrance brief.

The past is memory. The future, who can see?
So what is it that’s there, for you and me?
No matter what the part or whose the script,
The present scene is where we each must be.

The day goes by. The morrow is not here.
What use is our regret and all our fear?
This moment is the only thing we each
Can have and fashion. Let us hold it dear.

*******

And yet it passes—and is then no more,
Except in memory. All indeed is flow.
It can be felt but then it can’t be held—
This precious moment that we must let go.

And that’s the secret that is known to all
Except the batter who has missed the ball
And then would lure it back—or fears the next—
For that’s the trap in which we humans fall.

These things, the sages have described—and yet,
Too often, in delusion, we forget
That as in everything, our practice makes
Us better in the things that we regret.

******

To find the sight that saints and sinners sought
But could not find, as they, like all, were caught
Within the swirling fog, our practices
Should each dissolve—along with all we’re taught.

So all our learning, from the first to last,
And hopes and worries, to the streaming, fast,
We then relinquish, so the present breath
Can flow unhindered by the future, past.

And this unlearning is the way we ken
That light obscured to all the learned men,
For only when we’re rid of the thief that’s thought
Is the present fully sensed—in the grace of Zen.

******
 
Embrace the living being in your arms,
No matter what the lack may be of charms.
Inhale the moment. Pause, and then exhale.
You’ve been with God—and freed from all that harms.

And all of this that I have written here
Had come to me, in a vision sharp and clear—
That all my words may only serve to dull—
Within that hell of madness and of fear.

And since that time, I’ve slowly walked a while,
And stumbled, fallen, wandered back a mile,
But being opened by the knife to light,
I sense the darkness—and I wince and smile.

******

Our lives are eddies in this world of flow
And each obstruction ends in more of woe.
We breathe and drink and eat—and yet we know
That all that’s taken in must surely go.

And yet, I would not, in a manner brute
Or gentle, claim that all there is of truth
In healing soul and body, I have found
Or say that I have traced it to its root.

For every prophet in this field, we find
Another who is opposite in mind
And spirit. So in humbleness I’ll end
By saying this—remember to be kind.

2018 January 12th, Friday
Brooklyn, New York
    

গাইব তাদের গান (gaibo tader gan)

 
গাইব তাদের গান

ধর্মের পথে, কাটল জীবন পাপের আবিষ্কারে৷
কাজের ফলে, ভরল থলি কেবল তিরষ্কারে৷
যা কিছু প্রিয়, রাখল কেড়ে গভীর অন্ধকারে৷

নিশির মাঝে, পথ হারিয়ে, আলোর খোঁজে যাই৷
হোঁচট খেয়ে, হুমরে পরে, যমের দয়া চাই৷
দুঃখে, শোকে, মনে মনে মায়ের ভজন গাই৷
 
বারেবারে আঘাত খেয়ে, তাও ত আছে প্রাণ৷
তাই ত আছে আলোর স্মৃতি, আছে আশার টান৷
রাতের শেষে, ভোর বেলাতে, গাইব তাদের গান৷
 
শনিবার, ৩রা জানুয়ারি, ২০১৪ খ্রি
ব্রুকলিন, নিউ য়র্ক
 

Darkness and Light

  
Darkness and Light
 
“Forgive them,” said Jesus, “for they know not what they do.”
Or so the gospel says he said, two thousand years ago,
Across the seas, where Asia met with Africa and Greece.
 
And further back and further east, the sutras say Gotama,
Meditating, woke to truth and called us to awaken,
Who walk through life as if we dream, as captives to illusion.
 
The misery that we create, the madness we engender –
This lives, although we pass away, to plague the generations.
So vision stays beclouded and the nightmare still goes on.
 
But also, when we find our peace and turn towards the truth,
Our acts of kindness leave behind a little patch of calm.
And so there’s still the hope we’ll see and know what we have done.
 
Within the tempest, as it blows, in peacetime and in war,
Within our hearts, amidst the greed, the anger, fear and hatred,
There still remains the sanity – and memory of love.
 
“Forgive them,” Jesus said, “for they know not what they do.”
In hubris, men behave like gods.  Like Icarus, they fall.
And misery breeds misery, as wretches move in thrall.

And heeding Jesus, we forgive and let the burden go.
We pray that madness dissipates, that we regain our sight,
And that the darkness of the world gives way, at last, to light.

But prayer will not right a wrong or bring the dead to life.
It cannot heal a mortal wound or turn the night to day.
And so we pause and ask ourselves the reason why we pray.
 
Is there a need for suffering?  Is there a place for sorrow?
Perhaps it gives us more of depth, and humbles those of pride.
For who has not known sorrow may not truly know compassion.
 
We need the sunshine of the day, we need the dark of night.
And so perhaps the dark within is needed, so we see
And value more the sanity – and cherish more the love.
 
And there are shades of darkness too – there's sorrow and there's grief.
And both of these may cleanse the soul – but there is madness wild
And all the smaller devilries that cloud our hearts and minds.
   
And these are what obstruct our sight and so pollute our souls.
And what can clear away these things, I truly do not know.
But those of wisdom say to breathe and turn towards the light.

And so we only pray for peace, the peace within ourselves –
For courage when the fear is great, for calm when all is roiled,
So humbly we may lead our lives – and smiling, turn to die.
 
2014 September 20th Sat, 3:24 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
    

In the Eye of the Cyclone

     
In the Eye of the Cyclone

We’ve had a stormy night and now the leaves
Are scattered, dead and dying, on the streets.

The winds of war are blowing strong again,
And in their eddies, dead and living swirl.

The wars of men had ended, they were told,
And yet, they’re lying wounded, dying, dead…

******
 
When caught between the sides, they ran or hid –
And when those paths were closed, they turned and fought.

The end result appears to be the same –
The odds are for injustice, darkness, death…

The great typhoon, the hurricane, destroys –
And spawns tornadoes that assist its work.

******
 
I walk the city streets, that now have sun,
And wonder where to hide and where to run.

For even though we’ve long been in the eye,
The whirling wall is moving hourly nigh…

I look upon a little leaf and see
A little girl, who will no longer be.

2014 August 13th, Wed.
Brooklyn, New York
   

Monua in Boston (revised)

Monua  in Boston (revised)

My sister told me how, in her college days,

She’d traveled from South Hadley, a satellite

Of Amherst town, to busy Boston, where,

One winter’s eve, she waited for a bus –

And everyone that passed by, in that cold

And sullen night, seemed wrapped in such a fog

That none could see through it.  For each was trapped,

It seemed to her, within a private hell.

How much of this was she, and how much they,

Those strangers, passing, in that urban cold,

My sister – born to sun, of sky and heart,

I do not know – for this, she did not tell.

But what she saw were tense expressions – frowns,

That lack of recognition, which our towns

Impose on those who yield.  And this extends

To all around, as if all else were dead.

But this much, I can now surmise, with sight

That I then lacked – that she perhaps was wise,

From isolations that I’d never known,

And so could see, how troubled were those souls,

So locked within themselves – and round and round

In endless circles of frustration bound,

With self consuming self, without an out

From friendship, love, or care for what’s without…

It is this isolation – the living grave

Of urban life within efficient towns,

Where human contact and affections are

Redundant – where so many daily live

As jackals lone, whom Nature made as dogs –

That leads, I think, to higher suicide rates

In Scandinavia, where the Vikings live

In indoor warmth, in winters cold and dark.

They lack, perhaps, that rawest sustenance

That humans give, to others of their kind,

By their demands and their annoying ways

Which draw us out of selves – and into sun.

And if we see this, in the truest light,

We will not turn away, although our souls

May need a refuge, finding deep delight

In quietness – as in a silent night.

  

How much of this, my sister had surmised,

How much she hadn’t, only she could tell,

Who told me, Boston seemed a rung of hell.

I’m sure Bostonians might, at this, object.

And one experience, on a winter’s eve,

Should not be used to beat a city down.

But this I know, what Monua then perceived,

Had left its scar.  I heard – and I believed.

For Boston’s just a marker.  What she saw,

We all might see in cities ‘round the world.

Wherever men and women take to heart

The dictates of the demon-engine, there

We find the blight that rots us from within.

It leaves us sickened, faces turned to masks,

As each is writhing in what Dante scribed –

A place infernal, though we walk on earth.

Babui (Arjun) Janah

2006 June 4^th, Sun.
Berkeley, California
(revised & with the last two stanzas added,
2013 Dec. 19^th, Thu., Brooklyn, New York)
 In Memoriam
Monua Janah
1959 – 2004
   

Note on pronunciation:  My late sister’s name, Monua, has, in Bangla (Bengali), three smoothly joined and almost evenly stressed syllables, Mo-nu-a, with the three vowels being as in English “gold” (but shorter), “put” (but slightly longer) and “arm” (but shorter).

The first vowel gets, usually, just a slight emphasis – through a bit more of duration and loudness.  Since the last two vowels form a smooth diphthong, her name might also be thought of as having just two syllables, Mo-nua, with the “u” being, however, a distinct short “u”, (as in “put”) not a “w”. 
  

Winter’s Fury

            
Winter’s Fury
    
In tropic climes, the sun, ascendant,
Rules the summer with its heat.
Rains are welcomed.  Winter braces,
Brings a brief relief that's sweet.

But, in climates that are polar,
Summer’s cherished, and the spring
Is awaited through the winter.
And, with autumn, sun takes wing.

Here, by the cold Atlantic seaboard,
Autumn came, with its slanting sun,
Painted the trees in many colors,
Left, of a sudden, on the run…

******
    
Now winter comes with all its fury,
With banshee winds that howl at night,
For autumn’s left – and taken with it
Remnant warmth and fading light.

The sun, defeated, feeble, arches
Low above horizon south.
The birds have fled – and squirrels sleep,
As blizzards blow from winter’s mouth.

Season grim, of cold and darkness,
Stripping broad-leaved plants of life,
Comes – and many flee before it.
Others hide from winds that knife.

******
    
If springtime be the time for courting
And summer be the consummation,
Then autumn is the time for parting
And winter then is desolation.

So winter comes, like death and taxes,
Season dread, of dark and cold.
And some have strength enough to bear it,
But not the sick or weak and old.

The ones with clothes enough can venture
Out and brave the winds that freeze.
And some have heated homes of comfort
But what brings poor and homeless ease?

****** 
      
For some had slept on subway gratings,
Cardboard-covered, shivering, wet.
But now the councils curve the gratings,
So ease can only come with death.
   
First, the pain in the nose and fingers,
Then, the numbness that foretells
Loss, from freezing, of those members.
So does winter work its hells.
   
Soldiers  fought and died in winters,
Frozen hard in fields of gore.
Others, who were prisoners, suffered,
Frozen till they were no more.

******
    
From the lands of cold and darkness,
Came the hordes – to lands of sun,
Slaughtered, robbed and raped and plundered.
So the south and west were won.

So the Arya, Hun and Mongol,
So the settler with his gun,
So the ruthless armies marching,
With the locals on the run...

But those, who tried, in vain, to conquer
Northern lands – or those on high,
They were fated, by that winter,
To, defeated, freeze and die.

******
    
So the French and Germans perished
As the Russian winter blew.
So the British, in the Afghan
Highlands, paid their venture’s dues.

Humans, born from ape ancestors,
Still can’t live in freezing climes,
Not without the dense apparel,
Learned in Neanderthal times.

Who can deal with winter’s fury,
Save the one, who’s winter’s child?
He survives – but not the stranger,
Ventured north from climates mild.

2013 November 28th, Thu.
(Last Thursday in November, Thanksgiving Day in the U.S.A.)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York
 

The Winter Comes

 
The Winter Comes
   
The winter comes, with darkness and with cold,
With shortened days and nights of huddling close.
The winter comes, with freezing rain and sleet,
With blizzards, biting winds and drifting snows.

The winter comes, with battling winds that bring
Those endless snows, those dark and brooding skies.
The winter comes, with long and freezing nights –
And weakened sun that struggles, slants and dies.

The winter comes, as autumn takes its leave,
With fevers, 'flus – with windows shuttered tight.
The winter comes, with sneezes, coughs and more,
As autumn leaves – and takes, with it, the light.

The winter comes and strips the trees of leaves,
It comes and taxes those, who're ailing, old.
The birds will flee – and huddled beasts will sleep,
For winter comes, with darkness and with cold.

2013 November 9th, Sat.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn 

Dead Man Risen

                        
Dead Man Risen
      
I saw a dead man risen, with
The pallor of the grave.
I saw him walking towards me, as
My feet were turned to stone.

I saw that he was nearing, so
I tried then to be brave,
With all my sins before me and
No time then to atone.

And as he came upon me
And I trembled and I shook,
He reached his hands towards me
And in my eye did look.

And lo, though I was shaking,
I saw, within his eye,
The self, that had been hidden,
And it was none than I.

2013 November 8th, Fri.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 

Autumn

                     
Autumn
           
It's autumn and the yellowed leaves
Are dying, one by one.
The city's streets are littered
With their corpses, myriad.

The polar winds are blowing through
The city and we hear
The voices of the dead, as they
Are rustled down the streets.

******
  
A sickled moon is hanging
In the darkening autumn sky.
A sickened moon is waning and
It seems about to die.

And near that dying moon, there shines
A red and baleful star.
We shudder, as we see it, at
The horrors, dread, of war.

******
   
It's autumn and the winter, it
Is camped upon the hill.
It looks upon the city and
It seizes up its prey.

It breathes upon the city and
Its breath is dank and chill.
That winter will be coming and
Its will, we shall obey.

******
   
It's autumn, and the winter, it
Is camped upon the hill.
It's autumn, and the summer, it
Is lingering on the sea.

And winter will be coming, with
Its darkness and its chill.
Then summer, long departed, will
Have seemed to never be.

2013 November 7th, Thu.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
    

Alien-II

Alien-II
                                                                  
The storm has scattered us across the seas,
And some have found a cove in which to live,
And others struggle daily with the tides.
Survival leaves but little room for thought.

We dwell within our shells in loneliness
And hear the ocean pounding on the rocks.
For when we pause awhile from daily toil,
We sense in full the maelstrom all around.

And each retains a trace of memory
And so desires to be again as one,
But often only dimly sees the cause
Of feeling incomplete and alien.

2013 August 29th, Thu. 2:50 am
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
  

The Poet

The Poet
  
I saw a man, who'd dug a grave
And then lay down within.
I greeted him, “How do you do?
Is that a grave you're in?”

“It is.” he said.  I ventured then
To ask the reason why
He'd dug this grave (as I had seen)
And now, within, did lie.

“I am a poet, failed.” said he.
“Whatever else, I'd tried,
I'd made a mess of.  So, at end,
On poems, I relied.”

“Oh wonderful!  A poet!  Why,
I am delighted, sir!
For you're the first I've ever met.
An honor, you confer.”

And bowing low, in deep respect,
And also, so's to see,
I peered into that grave and saw
No trace of poetry.

“And where, oh poet (first I've met),
Are poetics of yours?
I've heard, a poem, when applied
At night, dyspepsia cures.”

At this, that poet muttered low.
His words, I strained to hear.
And in my notebook, I did scribe
Those noble words. They're here.

“I'll freely speak to you, because
You know so little, friend.
It's fitting that a dolt like you
Is witness to my end.”

And raising then his voice, he
With verses did regale,
Recounting what amounted to
A rather tawdry tale.

And all of what he said, I wrote,
At graveside taking seat.
And everything I heard from him,
I therefore can repeat.

“I started writing jingles when
I could do little else.
For though their quality was poor,
I'd learned that poetry sells.

“But I was told, 'There's better ways
For you to spend your time
Than this. Your poems rarely scan
And seldom even rhyme.'

“ 'It's time for you to look ahead
And put yourself to use.
Such verses as you write amount
To nothing but abuse.'

“And so, I tried my best to see
The future, as they'd said,
But what I saw was dismal and
It filled my heart with dread.

“And when I'd tried to see ahead
And found that all was black,
I wished there was a way that I
Could go, reversing, back...

“Since I'd survived the past and it
Was old, familiar ground,
I thought that I'd be better off
Back there, for a second round...

“But being told that there's no way
To travel back in time,
The only thing that I could do
Is write yet more of rhymes.

“I then was told to look around
And see what others see –
A world that's waiting enterprise
With opportunity...

“But looking left and right I saw
There's peril everywhere.
I wished that I could run away
Where people better fare.

“But since they said that danger lurks
Wherever I might go,
The only thing I found that worked
Was writing verses more...

“I saw the worries on the faces
Of the people 'round,
And I'd begun to worry that
My mind was far from sound.

“But being told, by learned folk,
That worries can't be fled,
I scribed more verse, on paper, screen,
And even in my head.

“By then, I'd reached a point where
I'd written so much verse,
That verses were a burden too –
And getting, daily, worse.

“Oh woe betide the wastrel who's
Addicted in this way!
From versifying, I now wished
That I could run away...

“And so I sought out doctors of
Disorders of the mind –
For such as these, if you would look,
In plenty you will find.

“And I had asked, of physics such,
'Have you a cure for ailment
That makes me write in verses till
It's time for my confinement?'

“But I was told, for poetry,
There isn't any cure.
I asked if they were certain and
They said that they were sure.

“I asked myself if I could live
Addicted so, to verse.
The answer came from deep within:
A negative – and terse.

“The answer that I got was this:
A short and simple 'No.'
And then I realized it's time
For me to quit and go.

“For poetry deranges minds
And turns our brains to mush.
It chatters and it sticks its tongue
At those who say, 'Now shush!'

“It's better far to leave this world
Than stay and be afflicted
By such a thing, as that to which
I sadly am addicted.

“And since the doctors I had seen
Could see no way to fix it,
I now have dug this grave so I
Can make, in it, an exit.

“So if you come tomorrow, you
Will see me lying dead.
I hope that you will help to see
No homily is read.”

I'd scribbled all the poet said,
In the notebook that I carried.
And now, besides that poet's grave,
To pay respects, I tarried.

I waited till the sun went down,
And insects flew, that bite.
And slaps and curses then I heard
From poet, out of sight.

And peering in the dark, I saw
A pair of glowing eyes.
“Is this the poet's ghost?” I asked
Myself, in some surprise.

And gathering up my courage, I
Did venture then to say,
While looking at those glowing eyes,
And slipping, slow, away...

“Oh are you he, and still alive,
Who's final words, I've written?
Or are you he, no longer live,
And yet, by insects, bitten?”

I heard a growl, and then I saw
A hand reach out at me.
I thought it fit that I should leave,
And hastily did flee.

But when, to graveside, cautiously,
I tiptoed, in the morn,
I found that though the grave was there,
The poet, he was gone.

I wondered for a while at this,
And went then on my way.
But why that poet wasn't there,
I wonder, every day.

And I return, at times, to check
That grave that he had lain in.
And though the grave has long been filled,
A fig-tree, there, is growing...

Was it a spirit that I'd met,
Who spoke to me in rhymes?
Or was he just a man like me,
Reflecting on his times?

But as I wonder, lo, I find
There jingles, through my mind,
Such verses as that poet warned
Might all one's wits unwind...

So could it be, that on that eve,
As insects small were biting,
His poetry-pest, who'd drifted free,
Had found his “dolt” inviting?

So I reflect, on incident
So singular that I
Have written this, so someone might
Explain, before I die.

2013 July 15th, Mon.
Brooklyn 
  

Encounter

Encounter
 
I met some souls, demented, yet alive,
Who rued their lives, misguided and misspent.
They asked, what lesson could a soul derive,
Except that all is naught, and made lament:

“How few, our moments, brief, of happiness,
How many, those of agony, despair...
In all save death, we've naught but diffidence,
And yet, we're born – to life and loving dare.”

I tried to tell a wanderer that I
Had aught to cherish in the life I'd lived.
He answered not, but with a baleful eye,
My own and so, my living soul, transfixed.

And as he stared into my self, I saw
That what I'd thought was precious now was turned
To worthless trifle.  All that I had built
With hope and labor was, to ashes, burned...

I screamed and wailed in horror and despair,
And heard their echoed voices join with me...
And all, I thought, had gone beyond repair,
Until I woke and light of dawn did see...

2013 July 3rd, Wed.
Brooklyn

Darkness

Darkness
  
Darkness into Darkness, sightless to the end –
When all are competitors, then who can be a friend?
Darkness into darkness, turned away from light –
When all we see is darkness, what use to us is sight?

Dark and deep the river, ceaseless in its flow –
When everyone is racing, then who can dare to slow?
Dark and deep the river, feel it swirl and rage –
When all around is madness, who listens to the sage?

Darkness into darkness, blindness cannot see –
When all that's good is dying, who wishes then to be?
Darkness into darkness, callous till the end –
When what you do is heartless, how can you be a friend?

2013 June 29th, Sat.
Brooklyn