We wake up as the sun begins to rise,

To a city that once was swarmed with cars,

Rests for this one hour of the day.

Dhaka:

Where my mother was born,

Where my parents met,

Where my loved ones live,

— Where my heart is warm.

Smog now hangs over a city,

Once spacious and green.

Faces upon faces,

One of the world's busiest places—

And yet,

Here is where I feel peace.

Among the chaos

I can make out the sweetest language in the world,

My grandmother's mother tongue, 

As she lulls me to sleep with a story of a princess and queen.

Dhaka: 

In her arms lie the stories of so many souls,

Familiar and unknown—

In her arms calamity emerges but,

She closes her eyes for this one hour—

The warm of the sun makes her glow,

Breathe, look, listen. 

The writer is a student of engineering and economics at Tufts University, USA.