Illusion Poem by BASAB CHAUDHURI

Days --
just days.
Nothing called good or bad days,
only days.
The journey of the sun since morning,
burning rays, too bright for the eye,
high humidity, thirty eight feels forty eight,
a little less light would have been better,
but it burns with rage, spewing fire.
Then comes evening, hot humid --
day continues through the night.
Then reflections: some men have that bad habit --
how was your day?
My day! All days are my day!
Allow it to pass and it passes through something or the other.
Through a needle, through camel's eye,
through the slivery sand, duck's feather,
dust, water, bicycle, tracksuit, book, red light,
day passes through all of them.
Good or bad, does day care?
It's all an illusion:
day will pass whether I am or I am not.
So -- was it a good day? Bad?
Day hot and humid.