The evening is like a weathered canvass,
clouds fading, stars pop up against a musty sky.

Daylight is blurring, erasing, timed out.
whispers as if choke the refugee colony.

The aroma spreads out, rises again like my breath,
words trap the salt of the northern breeze.

Shadows cross the clogged street in a hurry,
pile up at the crammed corner of the tea stall.

Trees stretch their silhouettes, dabbling with darkness,
and in the liquid light, the night bird searches metaphors.

Immobile vehicles, traffic snarls, noises and glares
Weave a pattern of fragments, of shards of thoughts.

My city waits for the midnight, reach quiet moments
yet, the darkness appliques in retina, in the clean bone.

Gopal Lahiri is a bilingual poet, critic, editor, writer and translator with 24 books published, including five jointly edited books. His poetry is also published across various anthologies as well as in eminent journals of India and abroad. His poems are translated in 16 languages. He has been nominated for Pushcart Prize for poetry in 2021. Read other articles by Gopal.