The Human Chin: From Anatomy to the Arts

 

 

After a session of table tennis playing, I asked my friend, an engineer involved in integrated circuitry and chip design, about iconography as is used by “etching” pathways via laser beams into a minuscule chip.

“The iconography I know goes back to Dutch and German artists carving and ink printing on wood. That was centuries ago. Is there a parallel in microchip production since the same word is used?”

After he explained the basics, he drew a parallel with biology:

“Biology fascinates me. Especially when it comes to structures and organs that are still in us but do not seem to have a critical function. There is no such thing in engineering.”

 

On my way home I thought about the human chin. A structure only Homo sapiens have, nor what biological functions it fulfills. And slowly, memories from an anatomy class came back and I realised that the words of our professor had stayed with me, albeit dormant for more than 40 years.

… “Homo sapiens have features you cannot find in other mammals nor in our Neanderthal ancestors. Your next assignment is to go to the library and learn about five such features and structures all of you have. I will tell you about three of them today.”

And he started with the chin.

“Have you seen a donkey, goat or sheep with a chin? Why do we have a chin? No scientist has an answer if it evolved for a survival purpose. It is a phenotypic trait and also called a spandrel. So we call it an evolutionary accident, although it allows the romantics in you to dream about that accident.

Next is the colour of our sclera. Have you seen a mammal with all that white in their eyes? No, we are the only one. All others have heavily pigmented sclera, especially pack hunting mammals whose eyes should not be seen by the pray. Again, perhaps “survival purpose” is for poets to dream about eyes for beauty and as windows to our soul. 

Third is our first that rib. We are unique among mammals in the articulation of that rib since it is only attached with the body of the first thoracic vertebra. All other primates and modern mammals have the first rib articulate as attached with two vertebrae; hence it is a bivertebral articulation.”

 Teaching with the humour he was known for, he summarised his message:

“So, remember – when times are rough, only humans can take it on the chin. When a smile makes you dream, it is because of the white in the eyes; and, when you fall from your donkey’s back, your first rib, because it is not rigidly articulated, is the least prone to break.”

I was amazed that I can still recall his words – that is the genius of a good teacher.

 

 

… I kept thinking about the chin and the eyes. In fact, my teacher’s message had stayed with me beyond biology, into the arts.

It was sometime in mid 2000s when I went to the TaipeiEYE theater in Taipei with a colleague who wanted to introduce me to Chinese Opera.

“You will see the unique art of Lianpu, the painted facial makeup on actors’ faces. It is all about what colour the chin is painted. Since you will not understand Mandarin, remember that the hero always has a red chin, the villain a white chin, and the thinking one has a blue chin. Now you can guess what is happening!”

Masks, be those carved from wood, papier mâché, silk or leather have been used in theater since Ancient Greece. And, as in Lianpu, the chin played a major role – not by having different colours to identify the actors’ characters, but in Greek theater the masks were designed as helmet-style headpieces including a chin and a jaw line. Historical accounts specify that actors would grab the mask by its chin to pull the helmet shaped mask over their head.

There were Tragic and Comic masks, hence the definition of tragic-comedy still used today when talking about a plot, be that theatrical or regarding movies.

Tragic masks were of more imposing sizes, giving the chin prominence with attached pointed beards for age or satirical characters. Comic masks had wide opened mouths reaching the chin to exaggerate the actors expression.

  

…Theatrical masks, first rib articulation, Chinese opera, unpigmented sclera, and chins. A simple comment by my friend at the end of a table game took me to places I once have been and memories I had forgotten.

But there was one more. Somehow all these seemingly unrelated topics got connected in recalling the opening scene of “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” when Audrey Hepburn steps down from a Yellow Cab onto a deserted Fifth Avenue in New York City. Like a dream just before dawn, she glides to the Tiffany & Co. jewelry store window, eating pastry from a paper bag. The dress she wore, a sleeveless floor-length Italian satin sheath evening gown with a cut-out décolleté at the back became the most famous Little Black Dress of cinematographic history. Add to this moment the long cigarette holder Hepburn was holding, that the pastry was eating out of a paper bag to contrast the iconic dress and Hepburn’s sophisticated elegance, the tortoiseshell sunglasses and pearl necklace, Henry Mancini’s “Moon River” playing, and you have the most creative, well-choreographed and filmed romantic moment in cinema.

Hepburn’s eyes could not be seen because of the glasses. But her chin, her subtle smile and the gracefulness she embodied have have described her as “The ultimate icon of delicate beauty. She possessed a beautifully petite, softly pointed chin that gave her a famously gamine and youthful look.”

 

And I smiled, and wondered what my anatomy professor would have thought if I had come back from the medical library search (there was no internet then…) and written:

 

“Evolutionary accidents are beautiful and, when “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” is the consequence, they do have a survival purpose for many Homo sapiens like me.”

 

I did not write it then, but today I would.

 

October 14, 2026

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2026

About the Photo: I took this shot in Taipei, in 2007 with a Mamiya 645 1000S during an evening walk. I first thought there were three mannequins in the clothing store.

Swan Song, Victim Advocacy and Shakespeare’s Othello

 

 

 

It has been an interesting week regarding emails I got from my readers. Often, the feedback I get about an essay I wrote is to express the pleasure the readers got from the lecture. Sometimes however, they share some of their reactions to what I wrote and ask questions. Needless to say, I am grateful for all reactions readers share especially from those who stay anonymous. It is part of the mystery I have cherished in the past two decades since I started my first blog – somewhere around the globe, somehow, what I had wanted to share became an echo in someone’s mind or heart.

 

My last essay was inspired by an email I received where a reader had found one of my poems published in a medical journal in the late 1990s. It was about addressing domestic/conjugal abuse from social and medical spheres of concern.

 

Soon after I posted that essay, I received another email about another essay I had written a few years back about Shakespeare’s Othello where the reader wonders if sometimes in the arts conjugal abuse is disguised by the artistry of the writer, such as in Shakespeare’s Othello.

 

First, the essay I wrote was about Pietro Calvis’s famous marble bust of Othello, and not thoughts about the social or medical aspects in interpreting Desdemona’s death in Shakespeare’s dramatic theater plot. My essay can be read here.⁽¹⁾

 

Second, and since I had not read Othello for many moons, I went back to re-read the final scene lines.

 

And third, when I started scribbling a few lines on paper, I realized that my mind was going in a very different direction than Othello and the violent last scene.

 

 

Putting Othello within the reader’s framework of conjugal abuse was neither difficult nor new. There is much written, especially in our century that equate Othello’s behaviour and act to domestic abuse and violence, and intimate partner homicide. This is the social or societal angle. In addition, there also is a medical recognition of that very act under the symptomatic definition of “Othello Syndrome” (although not a syndrome defined as such in the American Association of Psychiatry DSM-5 manual ⁽²⁾) and is widely use as a psychiatric diagnosis of morbid or delusional jealousy, when a person has an irrational and fixed belief that their romantic partner is unfaithful, despite having no actual proof.

 

The interesting discovery I made re-reading the Act 5, Scene 2 of Othello is about Desdemona’s maid Emilia who also suffered conjugal homicide from her husband Lado for protecting Desdemona against Lado’s plot, said just before being stabbed to death:

 

                                        "I will play the swan,

                                          And die in music."

 

This is when my mind left Shakespeare and Othello to realise that Shakespeare had perpetuated the myth of the “Swan Song” or the belief that swans are mute and sing only just before their death.

Of course swans are vocal throughout their lives, and the origin of the myth goes back to Ancient Greece. The "swan song" is a myth when believed that they sing just before their death. It is also an idiom for one’s last grand act and best creativity before death or losing touch with who he once was.

It is highly poetic and that belief continues after two millennia.

But the use of the idiom in Othello seems to have a consequence Shakespeare may not have thought about or intended in 1603. Indeed more than four centuries after Shakespeare used that two millennia-old myth, today Othello is considered not only a domestic/conjugal abuse and violence tragedy focused on the seemingly inevitable acts of Othello and Lado but also a focus on the victims Desdemona and Emilia. Both victims, especially Emilia, are seen in today’s focus of abuse prevention as the voice of those who did not accept complicity with their abusers and showed defiance albeit they paid the ultimate price. Emilia, early in the play’s plot steals Desdemona’s handkerchief to please her husband, but when she realizes that Lado’s lies caused Desdemona’s murder, she refused to continue her complicity with her husband. In an attitude of loyalty to a fellow woman she spoke to Venetian authorities, all males, about Lado’s plot. Sadly, she suffered the same fate as Desdemona at Lado’s hands.

 

I read Othello when I was in college. But today, decades later and knowing more about domestic violence statistics, I realised that Shakespeare may have paved the way in how victims can be protected and shielded when the “Othello syndrome” or other behaviours are observed and diagnosed in the abusers, which was unavoidable in 1603.

And, it became clear that Emilia broke yet another myth of unavoidability – she did not stay mute. She did sing knowing about her fate may be the same as Desdemona’s.

She became the swan who advocated for the abuse victim.

 

Othello remains a very relevant and pertinent theatrical masterpiece within our changed and changing social, moral and medical norms 400 years after it was the play’s first performance in 1604 at Whitehall Palace in London for King James I.

 

 

October 8, 2026

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2026

 

(1)   https://vahezen.blogspot.com/2024/08/pietro-calvis-othello-and-memories-of.html

(2)   DSM-5 diagnosis is a standardized mental health evaluation based on criteria from the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Fifth Edition, published by the American Psychiatric Association (APA).

Do Horses Gallop in the Inner Emotional Landscapes of Women?

 

I am always delighted to receive feedback from my readers, especially when my writings provide fodder to them for further exploration of the topics I tackle.

A message from a few days ago was from an anonymous reader who searched my published poetry works beyond what I had shared in my blog, and found two poems in the medical journal The Lancet dating back to the late 1990s. These are poems about domestic/conjugal violence as I was involved in research of that socio-medical issue from a public health and epidemiology angle. The references for these publications are at the bottom of the page.

So, I took a time travel to the recent years when the medical profession was actively involved in understanding, healing the wounds and preventing domestic violence as an epidemic both from the public health and clinical medicine points of view.

Going back two decades, I recalled a meeting of the research team (I was the only male scientist on that team) when the psychologist, equally fluent in literary works, read a passage from D.H. Lawrence’s 1920 modernist novel “Women in Love” and lines from the “ She Had Many Horses” famous 1983 poem by Joy Harjo. It was a moment when poetry and medicine came together in describing the attitude of the female character in relationships. And, since the quotes were both about women and horses, I later learned that the psychologist had grown up on a farm in Maryland.

Our research team had been given a historic and existential dive into the human relationships through a few literary lines.

Although I recalled the discussion perfectly, I had to go back and search for these lines as two decades have passed since that rainy morning in Baltimore.

The passage from D.H. Lawrence’s book was:

"And woman is the same as horses: two wills act in opposition inside her. With one will she wants to subject herself utterly. With the other she wants to bolt, and pitch her rider to perdition." 

And the lines from Joy Harjo’s poem were:

“She had some horses.

 

She had some horses she loved.

She had some horses she hated.

 

These were the same horses.”

 

…Sometimes it is good to look back and see how one’s own thinking and interpretation have changed through new life experiences.

 

The themes of autonomy and disobedience, fear and resilience, trauma and healing are often central to the association made between women and horses, and consequently by women regarding horses. The history of this sensical identity goes back to the beginning of times. Symbolic brides were often tied to equine themes in Greek mythology. Called Centaurides (female Centaurs), they were hybrid descendents of Greek gods, represented in paintings and carvings as half human female and half horse. The core paradigm was about duality of human nature, similar to Harjo’s poem that they were “the same horses” – the same duality that has to be accepted and dealt with. The duality of good and evil. The duality of kind and violent. As such the ending lines of her poem make us realize that the poem is not about horses – it is about human nature. Always in Greek mythology, the most famous female centaur, gifted with exceptional gracefulness was Hylonome in Ovid's Metamorphoses. After her lover, the centaur Cyllarus, died in battle, she committed suicide.

 

At this point, I recalled a few photos I had taken perhaps subconsciously having that mythological and psychological treatise of the special association between the human female and equine attitudes the lines from D.H. Laurence’s book masterfully summarise.

Here are a few examples, all from Arizona where cowboys, cowgirls and their horses continue the identity of the state as the last frontier of the Wild West.

 

A.    The photo atop the page. I do not recall the name of the farm. The rider was in the field, riding bareback. We talked about the farm, the horses and the desert. Then I asked if I could take a photo – she just hugged her equine alter ego saying:

                         She never had a saddle -we understand each other

B.     A girl on her horse in the desert. This was a moment from my weekly outings in the High Desert. I heard hoofs, and had just enough time to click once. The clouds indicate it was sometime between July and September, during the monsoon season. I overexposed the print paper to preserve her identity and enhance the mood of the shot. The capture has themes of harmony and co-existence between nature, the young girl and her horse.

 

C.     Comfort in external appearance differences. A horse and a pony showed up as I was hiking in the desert. I assumed they had found a break in the fence of a farm miles away. They passed near me, unbothered by my presence and exhibiting complete happiness in exploring the surroundings. Fences are not for horses, just as ports are not for ships.

 

 

 

 

Concluding thoughts

 

Re-thinking about the research and my poems published in The Lancet, I found myself focusing on two names from Greek mythology – Philhippos and Hippodamia. The first is man’s name which translates as “lover or friend of horses.” The name has gone through a number of iterations, and the modern version is Phillip. As for Hippodamia, a mythological woman, it means “she who masters and tames horses.” Both names reflect the fascination of Ancient Greeks for horses, but for different reasons.

Philhippos was and remains an aristocratic name. In Ancient Greece it was a sign of nobility, military power and wealth to own a horse. But not any horse – it had to reflect that very aristocratic status. In that sense, “love for horses” meant showing your status-pride and make the horse an extension of your glory.

Hippodamia in contrast, is a mythical, dangerous and raw, wild sexuality ridden character. For her, the relationship with the horse is through her subjugating the chaos a horse has within it. In that sense, Hippodamia herself has the untamed wildness of the horses in Greek mythology impersonated in the chaotic nature of Centaurs who were half-horses. Hippodamia is the anti-thesis of the horses (and Centaurs who were half-horse) wilderness and chaotic natures, and her raison d’être is to tame, subdue and dominate the horse. Hippodamia is famous for her wedding day. Her father invited the Centaurs to the wedding for political reasons. The Centaurs got drunk and tried to kidnap Hippodamia and other human women. This violent incident was the reason for a violent battle, called Centauromachy, where the Centaurs were defended by the human Lapiths.

And this is where I see a link and continuation of the social issues regarding domestic/conjugal violence and the psychological explorations of the relationship between horses and women.

 Philhippos is similar to the Centaurs, the half man-half horse mythological creatures. The chaotic nature of the Centaurs is the result of which part of the creature reacts to the moment – is it the horse in them that makes them untamed, violent and pursuing open fields where to run: or is it the man who is able to pass through the civic and social spheres without creating chaos and peacefully?

Hippodamia takes no chances in guessing what the horses and the Centaurs are going to do. She minimizes violence and chaos in them by dominating them. Subjugating them. Hoping that the wild and unpredictable in them will be tamed.

 

And that, perhaps, brings us back to why women and horses still have a unique relationship. But, a fundamental paradox remains: do horses really want to be domesticated and tamed? Can Hippodamia erase the wild mustang in them? Will the call of the wild always resonate in the soul of horses kept within farm fences waiting to be saddled for the next slow ride in the desert or lush meadows?

Or are horses metaphors for inner emotional and life experience landscapes that women understand best?

That will require consequent and future musing.

 

 October 1, 2026

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2026

 

References and Access to my Poems Published in  The Lancet

 

Title: Wide-eyed and Blue

Author: Vahe A. Kazandjian 

Journal: The Lancet (Volume 354, Issue 9172)

Publication date: July 3, 1999

 

 

Title: Black-eyed Suzan

Author: Vahe A. Kazandjian

Journal: The Lancet (Volume 352, Issue 9137, Page 1398)

 

These poems and my scientific papers can be read on Academia.edu as well as on Google Scholar

The Ethos of Tango in the Poetry of Jorge Luis Borges and Alejandra Pizarnik

 

I was going through my files when I found a writing pad where I took notes during a work meeting in Buenos Aires.

As an epidemiologist, I had many trips to Argentina in the 1990s. Reforming the healthcare system was the goal but a good part of my visits was with friends talking literature and arts. Especially poetry. And I discovered cultural aspects in the works of Jorge Luis Borges and Alejandra Pizarnik that I had not appreciated before.

… In a corner of writing pad I had scribbled “Patience is existential – it is not a waste of time to wait.”

I smiled and recalled how often I was told to be patient, that things would eventually happen, and that I first need to learn all the things the healthcare policy makers took for granted, as Argentinians, regarding how and went to implement reforms.

“We have the ethos of Tango,” I was once told “it is more than a dance and song; it is the essence of the wait.”

As I continued to look at that yellow page and the line I had written, I recalled lines from Borges and Pizarnik and searched the original poems.

 

Argentina’s most famous poet often wrote about time and waiting. Not time as an absolute concept but about the suspension of time. Not waiting as a delay or wasted opportunity, but a cherished space where memories and longing for future moments find their wisdom.

Waiting for love, or being loved, is a common theme in Borges’ poems, and his most famous lines are found in "Amorosa Anticipación" (Loving Anticipation). In this poem Borges watches his lover sleep, and he imagines her on a timeless beach where love exists untouched by life’s pace.

The ending lines of the poem are:

Arrojado a quietud,

divisare esa playa ultima de tu ser

y te vere por vez primera, quiza,

como Dios a de verte,

desbaratada la ficcion del Tiempo,

sin el amor, sin mi.

 

(Flung to quietness,

I shall see that last beach of your being

and I will see you for the first time, maybe,

as God must see you,

Time fiction spoiled,

without love, without me)

 

Another famous poem by Borges had the final lines on the wall of a bar in Buenos Aires where I often met with colleagues after work hours. It is again about time, patience but also about the optimism of the poet that love will arrive, that it was undeniably so, and that he has to decide if he would survive being under the siege of that moment.

The lines are:

"Es el amor. Tendré que ocultarme o huir...

Estar contigo o no estar contigo es la medida de mi tiempo."

(It is love. I will have to hide or run...

To be with you or not to be with you is the measure of my time.)

 

Alejandra Pizarnik approaches the issue of time, the wait and expectations as a femme fatale. When I first read her 1956 última inocencia, I thought of Circe in Homer's Odyssey - alluring in her pain, destructive in her survival. Not only her life and melancholic poetry have inspired me over the past decades, but I have also found her imagery most translatable to other forms of expression such as painting. More about this later in this post.

Melancholy and longing are central to Pizarnik’s life and writing. For me, she is a Fado singer, a Spanish poet who metamorphoses into a Portuguese artist singing the blues. Love is a painful reminder to her of times passed and of returns in await.

In “La Enamorada” (The woman in love), Pizarnik explores the pain and punishing of love as she awaits the return of her lover. Yet, in all the melancholy of her exploration she still holds on to hope, perhaps as Borges defined the inevitability of love. During that wait, she finds an internal patience in that waiting for her lover would “close the doors to her face” to isolate her away from the outside world where time is not suspended like Borges suggested.

She writes:

y te fue triste
estabas sola
la luz rugía
el aire cantaba
pero tu amado no volvió
enviarás mensajes
sonreirás
tremolarás tus manos
así volverá tu amado tan amado
oyes la demente sirena que lo robó
el barco con barbas de espuma
donde murieron las risas
recuerdas el último abrazo

 

(…sad you were alone

the light roared

the air sang

but your beloved did not return

you will send messages

you will smile

you will wave your hands

this is how your beloved so beloved will return

you hear the demented siren that stole him

the ship with beards of foam

where laughter died

you remember the last embrace)

 

 

… So, one line on a forgotten yellow writing pad page took me back to the 1990s to remind me that patient waiting is not a loss of time. Rather that it is stopping time to allow the inevitable to prepare itself for arrival. Suspend time to remember. Create that space where longing becomes a Fado song as I have heard numerous times in Oporto and Lisboa.

And when it comes to the poems and lives of Borges and Pizarnik, being patient is the ethos of Tango, a dance to accept the longing while awaiting your dreams to happen. Or to return.

And I thought that the essence of the wait is like sitting on a rock at the edge of time – uncomfortable and lonesome, yet protected and full of hope.

 

About the photo:

I took this photo from my car window, in Buenos Aires.  It was not published before as it is a photo with little story until I wrote about Pizarnik and her lover “closing the doors to her face” as a way to isolate herself from the daily reality of the outside world. Interestingly, all the windows are shut in this photo, something unusual for the daily life in many of the Latin American countries.

 

PS/ I have written about how Jose Luis Borges’ poems have influenced my own writings here:

https://vahezen.blogspot.com/2026/01/from-edgar-allan-poe-to-garden-of.html

https://vahezen.blogspot.com/2014/12/love-time-quantum-mechanics.html

 

And about Alejandra Pizarnik’s life as a muse for some of my literary outlooks as well as for my paintings:

https://vahezen.blogspot.com/2024/11/la-de-los-ojos-abiertos-revisiting.html

https://vaheark.blogspot.com/2024/11/inpired-by-poems-of-blanca-varela-and.html

 

September 24, 2026

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2026

Deaf like Odysseus

 

I was reading words by the contemporary American lyrist poet Gregory Orr from his 2013 poetry collection “River Inside the River”. A passage about rivers made me stop and look from the deck of my house to the Colorado Rocky Mountains. They look different with their barren peaks. The snow that melts from these mountain ranges becomes rivers, becomes the expected. Not this year.

Orr wrote

“I want to go back

To the beginning

We all do.

I think:

Hurt will not be there.

But I’m wrong.”

 

They say rivers cannot go back. I wonder if they do not want to go back. To the source, to the high mountains where the snow wait to be melted. To the meadows where deer and quail welcome sunsets as a promise for new, warmer rays. Perhaps rivers do not go back as wrote K. Gibran, and they might tremble before entering the ocean fearing it will disappear. But they know they have to become the ocean, because rivers do. Or perhaps because they have been there already, and their return cannot efface the pain they had left behind.

 

They say the oak tree lives in the acorn. I wonder if that tree drops acorns where part of itself will live again. In respect to where it came from. As a responsibility protected in the shell of time.

James Allen wrote in his 1903 masterpiece “As a Man Thinketh” about life’s flow:

“The greatest achievement was at first and for a time a dream. The oak sleeps in the acorn; the bird waits in the egg; and the highest vision of the soul a waking angel stirs. Dreams are the seedlings of realities.”

 

They say the song of sirens falls on deaf ears. I wonder if unwaxed ears fear the sirenas’ songs before they hear them. And after.

Sirens destroy our ships on the rivers leading to the seas. Odysseus wanted to hear those songs, but asked his sailors to tie him to the mast and for all to plug their ears with beeswax.

No siren song encountered during our journey on our inner river should allure or pierce our emotional boundaries. Especially if we are sailing up-river, against the current. Some inner rivers can and do go back.

 

They say he who deals in honey licks his fingers. I wonder if on the Spice Road merchants selling pepper licked their fingers. When our days are mellifluous and flowing with honey, we may be tempted to lick our fingers. But few of us embark upon that journey without the Spice Road merchants’ peppers.

Did Shakespeare in Sonnet 128 dreamed of kissing the hands of a woman playing music while his deaf ears heard the melody, as he wrote:

“Nimble leap

To kiss the inward of thy hand”?

 

Yet, not all rivers are for a journey. Some need to be just crossed; others to walk their banks. We are often curious about what hides on the other side of the river. That crossing is for those who have never seen an ocean before. The flux and flow they know is about the moment, what befalls upon our eyes and ears.

An African proverb reminds us of the humility necessary while we are safely on the banks of rivers going to sea, or inner rivers going upstream, against the current. 

  “Those who have not crossed the river should not laugh at those who are drowning”

... Rivers may or cannot go back. But it feels like they do when sailors turn the bow and push upstream.

September 19, 2026

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2026

 

Photo taken with a Soviet Salyut-C medium format camera and Zodiak 8B 30mm f3.5 lens made in Ukraine.

When the Clay Complies

 

 

Turn

And let the hands

Shape your way

To looking

Around

At their

Own

Pace

 

Pass

By the past

Seas and streams

Where old waves

Returned

 

 

Hear

The promises

You wanted to make

But made them

Only

To yourself

 

Shy

Remain curious

When your turn

Becomes

An unpretentious

 Line

A point

In the present

 

Then

 

Wet

The hands

A finger

At a time

With your forgotten

Last tear

And wipe them

With scar

Tissue

 

And

 

Turn again

That wonderful turn

This time

To shape

The hands you

Hold

With the colours

Of promises

That since

Found their

Seas and streams

Before

Sunrise

 

September 15, 2026

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2026

 

Photo I took In Baltimore Harbor with 1955 Fed-2 camera and Industar-22 lens