Evening Poem by Subhadip Bhattacharya

The evening is set,
the newspaper not read,
the bite of the air that breaks,
the nerves to travel or return.

The perfect animal,
that cannot be seen,
as to weather a dog or wolf,
nor the fragrances of the incense,
to gods.

Rush hour,
the perfect hour
is not to sleep,
but to wake up
amidst crowds.

Gasping for air,
are we still there?
The traveler asked...
Not yet, not yet,
the dawn is coming around
after the night.