Original: স্ক্রলিং | বেলায়েত মাছুম
Unspoken Names and Endless Waves
I went to see the sea,
With a man I know,
But I don’t know his name—
Never thought to ask.
What good would it do to know?
If I did, it might be easier;
I could call out, "Give me a cigarette."
But even without his name, we share the smoke.
He's on the phone,
Talking to his wife.
I have no lover—
The waves keep coming.
I couldn't hear what they were saying.
Wind and Fish at Noon
In Lisbon, there is a lot of wind
And smells of fish.
On my plate at noon, a fish head lies,
Its eyes stared unblinking.
No lids, no brows—
I continue to eat.
I glance at the clock,
Wondering where to go
Once this scorching afternoon ends.
Silent Streets and Wandering Souls
Yellow buses roam across the city.
No sound at all—
Or am I the one who's gone deaf?
My eyes burn,
I can't find my glasses.
People have come to wander.
They roam the hills,
Then stand by the sea.
A man stands, relieving himself—
Not far away, a few others keep watch.
One's umbrella has flown off in the wind.
I cross the street, hesitantly.
Farewell to the fly
No one is bidding farewell to the fly
It rests on my foot.
From the next door, the smell of curry drifts by—
I’m not even hungry.
But inside my head, a buzzing hum persists.
It’s 1:45 at night,
The ceiling fan is stuck.
The city is still awake,
Voices float through the air.
Let the morning return before noon,
I’ll go out to catch the fly in the yellow woods.
But the fly refuses to be tamed—
Where could it go if it fled from here?
Endless Scroll
My roommate
Is staring at the phone.
Scrolling,
Scrolling,
Scrolling—
Eyes fixed, unblinking.
Someone should say something to him,
But I don’t.
Scrolling,
Scrolling,
Scrolling—
Even my fingers won’t obey.
Restless Rooms
Is the man in the next room crying
Or laughing?
I can't quite tell.
I want to sleep,
But my roommate is still scrolling.
The yellow bulb above
Keeps its gaze.
I want to sleep, but I'm scrolling too.
Heatwave Journey
Where will I go once I step out?
I take the metro, get off at different stations.
But everywhere, it's the same heat—
Sweating, I board another train.
Sunglasses shield people’s eyes,
Phones in hand,
Wandering like migrating birds.
As I step off, I stumble,
No hand to catch me.
I grab hold of my own hand,
Standing still in the warm sun, like a seasoned crocodile.
Tangled Nights
The day tied up in telephone wires
Shoes tangled in a mess.
A hermit-to-be stays awake
In some corner of this city.
Two reptilian feet
Lie on the bed, crossing the sea.
By the time I return, it's night.
Lights flicker on.
I walk like a night-blind wanderer—
No light,
Yet light,
The telephone lines stretched overhead.
Stale Air and Lost Paths
Walking, talking on the phone,
People drift away mid-conversation.
One has lost their way,
Unable to find it again.
We sit on the verandah of Murari Market.
The sea breeze blows through,
But the sharp smell of urine overflows.
The four of us sit, noses pinched,
Discussing how we'll save the country.
We too came walking from the street,
Past dirty bins,
Up the stairs of this seven-story market.
Many more, like us, sit here—
Amidst the overpowering stench of urine.
Lingering Doubts
The news has been delivered—
A fly was found in the curry.
I’m heading to the restaurant,
The fly still buzzing before my eyes.
My cigarette burns out, slowly dying.
Someone left behind a chew of betel,
A streak of spit stains the ground.
Walking has left my feet aching.
I arrive at the restaurant,
Unsure if I’ll have dinner or not.
The doubt seems to rise in my mind,
I'll head back home.
The pain in my feet floats like a dead fly.
Where will I go once I step out?
I take the metro, get off at different stations.
But everywhere, it's the same heat—
Sweating, I board another train.
Sunglasses shield people’s eyes,
Phones in hand,
Wandering like migrating birds.
As I step off, I stumble,
No hand to catch me.
I grab hold of my own hand,
Standing still in the warm sun, like a seasoned crocodile.
Tangled Nights
The day tied up in telephone wires
Shoes tangled in a mess.
A hermit-to-be stays awake
In some corner of this city.
Two reptilian feet
Lie on the bed, crossing the sea.
By the time I return, it's night.
Lights flicker on.
I walk like a night-blind wanderer—
No light,
Yet light,
The telephone lines stretched overhead.
Stale Air and Lost Paths
Walking, talking on the phone,
People drift away mid-conversation.
One has lost their way,
Unable to find it again.
We sit on the verandah of Murari Market.
The sea breeze blows through,
But the sharp smell of urine overflows.
The four of us sit, noses pinched,
Discussing how we'll save the country.
We too came walking from the street,
Past dirty bins,
Up the stairs of this seven-story market.
Many more, like us, sit here—
Amidst the overpowering stench of urine.
Lingering Doubts
The news has been delivered—
A fly was found in the curry.
I’m heading to the restaurant,
The fly still buzzing before my eyes.
My cigarette burns out, slowly dying.
Someone left behind a chew of betel,
A streak of spit stains the ground.
Walking has left my feet aching.
I arrive at the restaurant,
Unsure if I’ll have dinner or not.
The doubt seems to rise in my mind,
I'll head back home.
The pain in my feet floats like a dead fly.
© Belayat Masum
August/2024/Lisbon
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