The World Wide Web-2025-10-20-22

  
The World Wide Web
 
We’re now acquainted with the “World Wide Web”,
But keep forgetting there’s another one
That spreads its filaments across the globe
And snares us insects for the spiders’ meals.
 
As long as we are trapped within the webs
Of Mammon's spiders, spun with wage and tax,
With real estate, insurance, lease and rent,
And shares and interest, we will all remain,
 
Except for some who’re fortunate or “smart”,
The captive slaves of those who spin the webs
That all together serve to trap the rest,
However much they struggle, each in place.
 
******
  
But how to extricate ourselves, I ask,
From lifelong bondage? Each of us are part
Of this, the system, which, in peace and war,
Exploits the workers, trapped by how they earn
 
Their sustenance. We’re subject still to whims
Of bosses, markets—just as serfs had been
To all the “lords” who rode upon their backs
And fed on all the endless work they did. 
 
I do not know, for others tried and failed
Whose strength and knowledge far exceeded mine.
I only know the path we’re on is that
Of needless bondage and of endless pain. 
 
******
  
Let’s wake and rise and educate ourselves
On all the struggles past. They were not in vain:
So much of courage, labor, sacrifice—
So many lessons, which we need to learn.
 
The wizards weave their spells and lo, we see
The miracles the sciences and crafts have wrought.
And yet, for bare essentials, we depend
On systems dark, as all is sold and bought,
 
Including those elected, not to serve
The voters but their funders. Let us strive
For truth and justice, work to disregard
The cynics and refute the endless lies.
 
2025 October 20, Mon.
(last three strophes added  Oct. 22)
Berkeley, California
 

Paradise

 
Paradise
 
How precious are the tranquil times that come
And bring relief from all the stress and rush.
How rare these have become, for most of us,
As lethal madnesses pervade our worlds.
 
But still, outsides the war-zones, there's the dawn
With softest light, the morning bold and bright,
And then the noon and afternoon, and dusk
That calls to rest—and brings the stars to night.
 
For some at least, there still are meets at times
With friends and kin that bring back memories,
For others, only what remains in mind,
Reminding them of hell and paradise.
 
I still retain my faith that’s shorn of creeds—
The faith primeval in the truth and right—
That hears, amidst the cruelties, the voice
That calls to those who heal and those who fight.
 
2025 August 31, Sun.
Berkeley, California
 

Leftist Creed

  
 Leftist Creed

When empires, big and small, compete,
And slaughters, with injustices, repeat,
Then should we side with one or the other, or
Unite to work against the Left’s defeat—

The death, impending, of resistance to
The power and wealth that’s leading me and you 

To slaughter one another, while they both
Grow dense—and profit from our labors too? 

There still is true-and-false and right-and-wrong. 
Our histories of lies and deaths are long.
So why not learn from these and organize
Against the endless wars and all that’s wrong?

So let us seek the truth and do what’s right—
Not yield to impulse or to clouded sight,
Avoid the frictions based on chance of birth—
And so know when to greet and when to fight.

To see, within both friend and foe, the I,
That sits within oneself—that insight—why, 
It's there in children, found in other beasts,
And yet is lost to many a heart and eye.

2024 August 18th, Sun.
Berkeley, California

Tides

 
Tides

The rhythms of the skies and seas,
The cycles of our lives,
The beats within the lines I write,
The pulse of breath and blood…

As women feel, in their fertile years,
Their monthly rises, ebbs,
So we each can sense the beating heart,
The in and out of breath…

******

The days and nights—they alternate.
The moon—it waxes, wanes.
The seasons come and go and then
They come and go again.

We're carried by the tides that surge 
Around us and within.
So life proceeds, with birth and youth—
And then with age and death.

But these—the seasons of our lives—
They never will return
Within a generation, yet
Will rise and ebb in turn

For others, just as they have done
For generations past.
So let us breathe and be in peace 
Until we breathe our last.

******

But where we see there’s sorrow, should
We choose to look away—
Or strive instead, with every breath,
To ease the weight of pain?
 
For how can we remain at peace
As others suffer, die—
And truth itself has been dispatched
Or hidden by the lie?
 
******
 
The tides of justice turn in time
But not without our aid.
However small we are, we still
Can help to turn the tide.
 
Together, we can try to turn
Towards sanity and peace,
So justice, long denied, is served,
And manmade sorrows ease.
 
2024 Aug 3rd, Sat.
Berkeley, California
 

My Father’s Photographs of India

 
My Father’s Photographs of India

There's happiness and even joy
Within this world we’re in,
Yet measured out to just a few—
Or so it seems to me—

As humans, all together, shape
The human world and more,
With just a few in leading roles
And others pulled in line.

But when I look at photographs
My father once had taken,
Along with images of woe—
Of famines, riots, flights— 

And those of workers under stress
In factories, sewers, mines—
I see the faces—calm, composed,

And even smiling wide—

Of peasants in the villages
Among the hills and plains,
Of tribal folk in dignity—
Not bowed, but standing straight—

Of people living common lives—
But not in misery,
In poses, choreographed, it seems,
Within a flowing dance. 

******

The interruption of that dance—
The speeding of the pace—
The separation, competition—
Is what we humans face.

******   

Inequities of ages, borne
By those who worked the hardest—
Those still persist, but added on
Are pressures more destructive.

We each can shrug and say, “So what?”
Or say that this was destined,
Or pause, reflect, and ask if we
Have choices still for freedom.

That word—it once had resonance
And gave the people hope
In struggles that they fought and won
Or lost—while still persisting.

So every generation must
Do battle in its turn—
Not giving in to cynics or
To apathy or fear.

Yet those who care and those who dare
Are few and far between. 
The rest of us would rather shut
Our eyes to cruelest sins.

****** 

I see the images on screen
Of what is happening now—
And I am sickened to the core—
As long ago I’d been

When working with the refugees,
In nineteen-seventy-one,
Who’d left behind their homes and farms
To flee across a border.

How difficult it is for me,
Now even more than then,
To watch this manmade suffering,
And see no end in sight.

And yet, I look at photographs
My father took of those
Who died when people rose to greet
The “Naval Mutiny”.

And lo—the women, children, men,
Who lie there, stripped and dead,
With bullets through their heads or chests,
Are clothed in radiance.

2024 July 30th, Tue.
Berkeley, California

Xadharon manuxer gan-সাধারণ মানুষের গান

 
সাধারণ মানুষের গান
 
জগতের হত্যা, অত্যাচারের মাঝে 
বইছে তবু সেই চিরতন ধারা—
শিশুর হাসি, ঋতুর আসা-যাওয়া, 
এই জীবনের ছোটো মঙ্গল সারা।
 
মানুষের কীর্তি? ভালো-মন্দ দুই! 
নিরাশার খাদের থেকে, আকাশের তারা! 
চোখের জলে, শহীদের চরণ ছুঁই। 
ধন্য, আশা দিয়ে যায় যারা।
 
ইতিহাসে কত বীরের গল্প, তবে 
প্রায় সব-ই যোদ্ধার মহিমায়। 
সাধারণ লোকের উদার যত্ন, সাহস—
কঠোর দশায়, প্রতিদিনের চেষ্টা, হায়—
 
কোন্ মহাকাব্যে লেখা, কোন্ গীতে গাওয়া—
খুঁজে পাই না, জানি না, জানি না, ভাই! 
চোখে দেখে, বুকে টের পেয়ে, 
সেই সাধারন মানুষের গান গাই।
 
নত মাথায়, প্রণাম করি এদের,
মৃদু স্বরে, এদের গুণগান গাই। 
মানুষের সব নিষ্ঠুরতার মাঝে, 
মানবতায় ভরসা রাখি তাই।
 
রবিবার, ১২ মে, ২০২৪ খ্রি.  
বার্ক্লি, ক্যালিফোর্নিয়া 
 

Ki bujhechi-কি বুঝেছি

 

কি বুঝেছি?

আমার জীবন, অতি সাধারন। 

নেই গো তাতে হীরে-রতন। 

ঘোসে-মেজে বাসন, চালিয়েছি তাও, 

করেছি আয়, আয়োজন।

ভোরের আলোয় জেগেছে আশা। 

সাঁঝের সাথে এসেছে ক্লান্তি। 

দিনের বেলায় করেছি কাজ। 

শেষের বেলায় চেয়েছি শান্তি।

কত রকমের নিষ্ঠুরতা, 

কত চেতনের কান্না, হায়! 

নির্বিকারে, হৃদয় ঢেকে, 

চলছে পথে, সবাই প্রায়।

কারোর জীবন কষ্টে কাটে, 

কারোর সহজ পথে। 

ধুঁকতে ধুঁকতে লক্ষ হাটে।

কেউ ভেসে যায় রথে।

এই জীবনের স্রোতে ভেসে, 

ভুগেছি কত দুঃখে, ক্লেশে। 

দেখেছি কত দয়া, মায়া। 

কি বুঝেছি, সবের শেষে?

অনেক দেখে, অনেক ভেবে—
লবডঙ্কা, গোল্লা, জিরো!

তাই, হতাশায়, আবোল-তাবোল 

পদ্য লিখে, হচ্ছি হিরো।

সোমবার, ১৮ মার্চ, ২০২৪ খ্রি.

বার্ক্লি, ক্যালিফর্নিয়া

If I Must Die-Refaat Alareer-translation-Ami jodi ete mori, bhai

This poem was written by Refaat Alereer, a poet and professor in Gazza, in 2014, a year in which that small, fenced-in area of southwest Palestine, densely populated, mainly with refugees and their descendants, was bombed intensely for fifty days during Operation Protective Edge. 

The poem was shared online again by the author near the end of 2023, shortly before he and others in his family in Gazza were killed. 

An attempted translation into Bangla follows the English original. The translation is inadequate, as I could not match the stark simplicity and power of the original.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

IF I MUST DIE 
BY REFAAT ALAREER

If I must die,

you must live 

to tell my story 

to sell my things 

to buy a piece of cloth 

and some strings, 

(make it white with a long tail)

 
so that a child, somewhere in Gaza

while looking heaven in the eye 

awaiting his dad who left in a blaze— 

and bid no one farewell 

not even to his flesh 

not even to himself— 

sees the kite, my kite you made, flying up above 

and thinks for a moment an angel is there 
bringing back love 

If I must die 

let it bring hope 

let it be a tale

____________________________________________

আমি যদি এতে মরি, ভাই

আমি যদি এতে মরি, ভাই, 

তোমার বেচে থাকাটা চাই,

আমার গল্পটা যাতে বলতে পারো—

আমার যা কিছু বেচে দিয়ে, 

এক ফালি সাদা কাপড় যাতে কিনতে পারো, 

তার সাথে কিছু সুতো কিনে, 

তা দিয়ে যাতে বানাতে পারো

একটা লম্বা লেজের সাদা ঘুড়ি—

যাতে এই গাজ্জার কোন কোণে,

যে শিশু হতাশে চেয়ে আছে,

আকাশের সাথে চোখাচোখি হয়ে, 

তার হারানো বাবার অপেক্ষায়,

যিনি আগুনে হঠাৎ জ্বলে পুড়ে চলে গেছেন,

কাউকে বিদায় না দিতে পেরে—

এমনকি নিজের দেহেকেও, নিজেকেও নয়—

যাতে সেই শিশু, সেই সাদা ঘুড়িটা দেখে,

এক মুহূর্তের জন্য ভাবতে পারে—

এক ফরিস্তা এসেছে, উঁচুতে ভেসে—

ভালোবাসা ফিরিয়ে এনে… 

আমি যদি এতে মরি, ভাই,

তাহলে, তোমার দয়ায়, সেই মরণ

শিশুদের কিছু আশা নিয়ে আসুক।

আমার গল্পটা যেনো তাদের কাছে

মনে রাখা লোককথা হয়ে যাক।

রেফাত আলেরীর, গাজ্জা, ২০১৪ খ্রি.

২০২৩ সালে, নিজের মৃত্যুর কিছুদিন আগে,

এই কবিতাটি তিনি আবার 'শেয়ার 'করেছিলেন।

মধুশ্রী মুখার্জির অনুরোধে অনুবাদ: অর্জুন জানা,

২০২৪, ফেব্রুয়ারির শুরুতে, বার্ক্লি, ক্যালিফোর্নিয়া 

G1z1

 
G1z1
 
G1z1, G1z1, burning bright!
Thunder roaring through the night!
Which the mind that held this dream
Of hearing huddled thousands scream?
 
In what dark imagination
Rose this scheme to end a nation?
Of what matter
To whom will emptied parents cry?
 
Hear, beneath the weight of rubble,
Those who’ll soon be out of trouble—
Some within an hour or four,
Some within a week or more.
 

Hear the endless lie that spouts

From the shameless, lying mouths. 

See the faces, on the screen,

Perched on suits and ties obscene.

 
******

Draped in darkness lay the city,

Hoping for a trace of pity,

Praying for an end to lying,

Till the time arrived for dying.

Set alight, the parents burn.

To whom will muted orphans turn?

Stripped of skin, the children die.

To whom will emptied parents cry?

Hear, beneath the weight of rubble,

Those who’ll soon be out of trouble—

Some within an hour or four,

Some within a week or more.

Fifty days of searing pain.

See! It’s starting once again!

Fifty nights of burning flesh.

Hear! The torture starts afresh.

****** 

 
Believers raise their hands and eyes,
Beseeching still the G1z1n skies.
Firm remains their ancient faith,
Accepting will, divine, as fate.
 
For those like me, who don’t believe,
What still remains that might relieve
This pain that’s just an echo, yet
Is something we will not forget?

There’s nothing, naught, except to strive
To end this curse while still alive—
To try, by every means, to bend
Our species towards this horror’s end.
 
Could those of us, who pay our taxes,
Refuse to pay these, till the axis
Joining this to endless pain
Can never, ever work again?
 
2023 December 1^st, Fri.
Berkeley, California

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

With many bows to William Blake:

The Tyger

The Path Taken

 
The Path Taken
 
There's neither a heaven nor a hell that waits
As pat for virtue or as rod for vice.
Justice is not served within a life
Or afterward. Our hopes are often dashed 
And all our labors blindly set to naught.
 
And yet we strive for what we feel is best,
And yet we hope for justice for ourselves
And others. This gives meaning to our lives.
We walk upon the road and look ahead—
As otherwise we might as well be dead.
 
******
 
There’s light and darkness, coupled each to each.
There’s joy and sorrow, pleasure-pain, entwined.
There’s fear and anger, jousting with desire—
And love, compassion with their opposites.
There’s deep attention—and impatient haste.
 
So also: “good” and “evil”; fog and clarity;
Truth and falsehood—and what’s in-between;
The stress of conflict—and the grace of peace.
We walk within the pulsing and the breath—
The yang and yin of birthing, life and death.
 
*****
 
We humans often think that we’re unique—
Forgetting every species also is.
The times we’re in, despite the Internet,
Are full of things that stress and isolate
Us—each from each—or else distract and blind.
 
We walk alone and yet at times we find
A hand that reaches out to us to help
Or just to touch us, so we know that we
Are not alone—and share the sentient plight.
And when we do the same, we share the light.
 
2022 August 30^th, Tue.
Berkeley, California
 

Freedom-2022-05-05

Freedom
 
Freedom is a vital thing
That’s dear to young and old.
Freedom is a precious thing
That can’t be bought or sold.
Yet freedom can be snatched away—
Or taken bit by bit.
When freedom’s lost or threatened, then
It’s time for actions bold.
 
There’s servitude, to those who wield
The whip, the rod, the gun;
Indenture, too—to those with snares
And webs of debt they’ve spun—
And labor, for the wage that’s earned
On terms befitting serfs.
And then there is dependence on
The beneficent one.
 
These all are forms of slavery.
To varying degrees,
We each are captives, happenstance,
Or humbled, on our knees,
To those adept at trickery
Or playing on our fears.
Arise, arise—to liberty,
So tyrannies may cease!
 
The tyranny of masters, be
They private or the states;
The tyranny of lenders, who
Extract usurious rates;
The tyranny of doctrines,
Administered by “priests”—
It matters not. Beware of those
Who “own” the others’ fates.
 

If Fortune gives you fortune, friend,
Or if you're fortune's earned—
Do use it humbly, kindly—
So your fortune then is turned
To that of others. If instead
Your fate is that of labor,
Then give, to others, service that
Will surely not be spurned.
 

The “owners” and the “workers”: both

Have rights—and both have faults.
Be fair, be just, in what you do—
With service—as with vaults.
Open up your eyes and heart.
Be wary—yet be kind.
Be neither slave nor master. Taste
Of freedom’s vital salts.
 
But wait! Beware, my patient friend,
Of those who say they act
In freedom’s name—and boast of this,
When what they do, in fact,
Is in pursuit of power, wealth—
But cloaked in freedom's garb.
Do not be fooled by merchants. Keep
Your soul—and sense—intact.
 
2022, May 5^th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
 

Fragments

   
Fragments

We age and then, in time, we die.
And yet, although we might despair,
We hold to truth, refute the lie,
And try to mend what needs repair.

We're humbled by the blows of time,
And all our hopes are dashed in turn.
And yet, we breathe, and persevere.
While life remains, our candles burn.

Who knows the truth, except the gods?
And surely they are blinded too.
We hold our fragments to the light,
For that is all we each can do.

2017 April 24th, Mon.
Brooklyn, New York
 

The Dreamers’ Lament

  
The Dreamers’ Lament
 
In childhood, we conceived our dreams;
in youth, we gave them birth.
And then we worked to rear them,
and saw them slowly grow.
And we had hoped to leave them strong,
before we left this Earth.
But sadly, they were ravaged, wrecked—
and now they are no more.
  
The things that we had dreamed of,
for which we worked and fought,
They still appear as worthwhile,
although our dreams have died,
as all the things, that we had built,
are rendered now as naught.
For every time we’d smiled and laughed,
we’ve also wept and cried.
 
The tasks, that we had set ourselves,
now must again be done.
But who will fight those battles, still,
that we had thought we’d won?
 
And who, we ask, will shoulder now
those burdens we had carried?
It seems that we have overstayed;
for far too long, we’ve tarried.
 
Our spans of course are limited,
yet long enough for woe.
We’ve had our sips of joy and now—
it’s time for us to go.
  
2017 March 31st, Fri
Brooklyn, New York
  

A Space Exists

A Space Exists
 
Between the push and pull of fear, desire,
A space exists for wisdom, peace and love.
And in this space the waves of grief and joy
And all emotions, thoughts can come and go.

And yet, beneath those surface waves, there still
Remains a zone that's calm and unperturbed—
For currents strong may roil below the waves,
But there are depths in which we still are free.

But when we try to hold, preserve, maintain
The transient joys, entrapped by fear, desire,
We bring then woes upon our heads and those
Of others, losing sense and sanity.

And see—we’ve built ourselves a monstrous world
That runs on fear and greed, and so is fraught
With all the evils that the two, conjoined,
Engender, wreaking madness, mayhem, woe.

The vices that have long been recognized
Are seen as virtues, virtue viewed as vice.
Until such views reverse, we won’t regain
That space in which to breathe and see again.

We cannot know what happens far away,
Or even in our city or next door,
Except from what we’re fed—that filtered feed
That’s then polluted by the feeders’ views.

And so we each are more and more entrapped.
We’re caught, conditioned; then, as zombied slaves,
We race upon the tracks that power the mills
Of Mammon that are grinding all to dust.
 
And though the tools exist, for some at least,
To see beyond the bounds of space and time,
So many still are blinkered in their views,
As goads, incitements work to steer the herds.
 
What hope exists, except that each can still
Attempt to shed these strong constraints of view?
No liberator comes; no hope exists
Except from what we each can try to do.

No revolution can succeed until
We see the wheel that each is turning too.
No evolution towards a saner world
Can be, without that pivot each must do.
 
A space exists between the push and pull
Of fear, desire, in which our vision clears.
To clear that space of snares and clutter, we
Can labor, with our grants of strengths and years.

We each can try, in small and humble ways,
To change the world that all of us have built.
It isn’t god or nature that dictates
What humans do. Our minds are snared and trained.
 
Without the promise that we will succeed,
Without the premise that the work is light,
We each can labor, breathing deeply, while
We work from darkness towards the hope of light.

There is the outer world and that within,
And each affects the other in its turn.
There is a little sphere that pens us each—
But in ourselves the bounds are ours to reach.

We can’t control what happens in this world,
We can’t foresee the future, yet we each
Can still enjoy, within ourselves, that peace
Residing in that space that each can clear.

No matter what tomorrow takes or gives,
No matter what the past has done or been,
There’s still the moment that we’re granted now
In which to turn towards dark or towards the light.

2016 August 25th, Thu.
Brooklyn, New York
  

Cowards--Those Who Love the Lie

   
Cowards / Those Who Love the Lie
 
They might rouse you with their shouted slogans
And their marches to their bands,
Make you feel that you are special,
Living in the best of lands.
  
They might frighten you with warnings,
Slander you with shameless lies,
Beat you till they see surrender,
Or till light departs from eyes.
 
So many ways to rouse the passions,
So many means to have their way!
So many ways to scare and threaten,
To hide the truth from the light of day!
 
And yet, it's clear it's they who're frightened,
Even as they shout in rage,
Even as they beat and bludgeon— 
Frightened of the turning page.
 
For see—to east, the sun is rising
And light is dawning in the minds
Of all of those whose lives were darkened,
As all the spool of lies unwinds.

Courage then!  Be cautious, friends,
But bravely think and speak and act.
There's naught to lose that won't be taken,
And much to gain for those attacked. 

Our ones and twos, their mobs can silence
And the courts can do their will.
But when our thousands speak our minds,
Then who can stop the dawning still?

Cowards thrive the best in darkness;
Yet, a thousand times they die.
Boldly seek the truth. The risk is
Most for those who love the lie.
 
2016 February 23rd, Tue.
Brooklyn, New York
 

Hopeless?

 
Hopeless? 
  

Sun behind a cloud 
Brooklyn, 2015-08-01, © Arjun Janah

   
      



There are times, upon our journeys
On the trails of chance and choice,
When our work is dashed to pieces
And we're left without a voice.
    
When the world has lost its lightness
And our hurts and worries grow,
We might seek relief in drinking
As we drown in endless woe.

When our lives are filled with darkness,
And our hopes and dreams have fled,
We might hide in our addictions
Or be paralyzed with dread.

The birds of dawn may twitter
But our limbs have turned to lead.
Our mornings then are hopeless,
So we lie and rot in bed.
 
In trivial things, we fritter
Our precious lives away.
Our nights are crazed and restless
And so is every day.

In life and work despairing,
By those we loved betrayed,
We might yield then to the darkness,
With all our moorings frayed.

But if, amidst afflictions,
We quietly do resolve
To change our lives’ directions,
Our nightmares might dissolve.

When our sails are slack and drooping,
As our winds have ceased to blow,
We can wait and wait for breezes
Or settle down to row.

******

There are many things we can’t control.
There are just a few we can.
And if we walk a step each day,
That lets us know we can.

There are forces strong we can't resist;
There still are those we might.
And if we throw a punch a week,
We'll stay then in the fight.

There are times of joy and hopefulness,
There are times we’re robbed of hope.
In the worst of times, we still can strive
Or only sit and mope.

Out happiness and our sadness both
Are met in part by chance.
A forward step, a sideways step,
A backward—that's the dance.

It's cowardly to run away—
Unless we know we'll die.
Let's share the sprouts we've found of truth
And shield them from the lie.

It's neither wise to quickly yield,
Nor stay and fight to death.
We should remember our defeats
When victories are met.

Be humble then in victories.
Do not, on failures, dwell.
Successes small can give us strength
To bear those failures well.

The middle way is often best,
But each must find her own.
Through deep despair and hopelessness,
That median might be known.

The fever comes and rises and
It seems it will not go.
And yet in time it ebbs and leaves.
What's "hopeless" isn't so.

The darkness comes and we despair
At more and more of night.
But till the end, we still have hope
And memory of light.
   
2015 July 25th, Sat. 10:46 pm
(1st, 6th, 8th, 10th, 13th, 17th & 
18th stanzas added Aug 1st, Sat.)
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York

Sun behind a cloud
Brooklyn, 2015-08-01, © Arjun Janah

   

A Season for Retreating

 
A Season for Retreating
 
If you’re punished for your labor,
Should you cease to do what’s right?
If it’s truth that you’ve uncovered,
Should you hide it from the light?

When you’re harried for your caring,
Will you then no longer care?
When you’re hammered for your daring,
Will you then no longer dare?

You can think about your answer,
You can answer fast or slow.
But until you’ve lived to know it,
You will never really know.

You may think that you’re a fighter,
That you’ll never yield your ground
When the stakes are truth and justice,
Though the foe be all around.

But the years can take their taxes
And the blows can wear you down.
And there’s little point in fighting
When it’s you against the town.

There’s a point in every battle,
There’s a time in every war,
When you know you’ve been defeated,
No matter who you are.

There’s a season for advancing,
Another for the pause.
There’s a season for retreating,
No matter what the cause.

For your causes may have merit
And your logic may be sound,
But when lies have you surrounded,
Then it’s time for ceding ground.

2015 January 11th, 12:31 pm
Brooklyn, New York