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| Maya, the Fly, and Benformso |
These poems were born from the streets of Lisbon, especially in and around Benformoso, where I often wandered—alone, observant, listening. Each piece captures a fleeting moment: a passing train, a silent fruit, a buzzing fly. Together, they tell the story of a self drifting between home and the world, carrying memories, restlessness, and wonder. This is a document of small days and large silences.
1.
Dhurrum dhurrum, the metro is running.
People of many colors,
Clothes of many shades.
Some have come from Baku,
Some from Amsterdam,
Some are going nowhere —
Just staring at the old metro.
My path leads me home.
2.
I could forget the ache—
but this tooth,
it clings to pain like memory.
I glance around,
watch the drifting faces
as I drift home.
Each evening, I return
where words slip
between silences—
and vanish.
Yet the pain remains,
a quiet tenant
in the house of my teeth.
Yes, I could forget the pain,
but if I do—
how will I ever remember?
3.
Each day,
my hair grows longer—
from dawn to dusk.
At the salon, it’s trimmed—
now short strands rest on my head.
I’ll head home soon,
bathe in warm water.
Five euros snipped from my pocket,
no miscalculation—
though I’ve always been poor at math.
Every day,
I think of going somewhere,
but the destination disappears.
I sit at Nuren Café, sipping tea,
wander a while,
then return home, again.
4.
No data on my phone,
no money in my pocket.
But I have a metro ticket—
so I ride, sit quietly.
Two meals a day
at the Taj Mahal restaurant.
After the last bite,
I light a bidi.
No breaking news, says
I’ve gone missing.
Even after vanishing,
I return home—
guarding myself
like a secret
at a festival.
5.
So many words
rushing off with the wind.
I sit still.
Two dogs stroll past,
neck to neck on the street.
Down an alley,
a betel shop glows.
Someone spits red,
mid-chew.
People gather like traffic—
stuck,
stacked,
asking:
Where’s your home?
One from Sylhet,
one from Comilla,
another from Madaripur.
Someone, perhaps,
from Chattogram—
bearing scents
of Punjab, Karachi, Kabul—
wanders these broken-brick roads
of Benformoso,
of Lisbon.
The forests of Serbia
aren’t far now.
Memories of words
rush away with the wind.
6.
Walking, I emerge
from the alley—
a cigarette burning in the hand.
I am like a migratory bird,
lost to the path,
yet walking it still.
I walk to arrive somewhere,
but where do the others go—
these strangers walking beside me?
Are they, too,
on their way to
a home?
A tavern?
Some dim-lit corner of belonging?
Step by step,
I come close to stopping.
Laughter echoes.
And when I see someone cry,
I flee—
as if I could outrun my own sorrow.
7.
The oranges
seem to be looking at me.
I look back—
yellow-orange, glowing.
No words pass between us.
Lips wrapped
in the luxury of silence.
Where should I go?
Through Benformoso,
through Rua Mouraria—
I wander,
then pause beneath this orange tree.
The oranges
still gaze at me,
and letting go of every doubt,
my eyes fall asleep
upon the eyes
of the fruit.
8.
Once again,
I came alone to see the sea.
I sat in the sunlight,
as a cold breeze touched my ears.
Though I gaze at the waves
through shaded glasses,
I see deep in the water
the quiet lives of fish.
All around me—
so many people,
the world, on its travels,
pauses right in front of me.
I watch a few dolls
waving their hands
as the wind carries them away.
And I walk too—
from path to path, I rush.
I sit in little boats,
secretly sailing river after river.
I tear my own sleeve,
forget the road that leads me home,
and once more,
I come to see the sea.
Alone,
the sea slowly
drains away
within me.
9.
Lungis flutter in the wind
across Benformoso,
bathed in a gentle Friday sun.
The sky is dressed
in soft white clouds.
Rows of hundreds—
men gathering for Jum'a prayer,
their chatter dissolving
into the breeze.
My freshly cut hair,
sweating beneath the sun’s sharp gaze.
After the prayers,
I’ll return
to the tricks of survival—
sink back into a life half-made.
The mouths around me
won’t stay shut.
A black taxi passes—
doesn’t stop for me.
On Benformoso’s balconies,
the lungis keep dancing.
And I,
just wanting to fly,
stand still on the street.
10.
I met another fly today—
couldn’t recognize it,
not a word was exchanged.
Still, my hand reached out,
and after much trying,
I touched it—just once.
Now the fly circles around me,
buzzing, buzzing.
This tune
doesn’t enchant me,
but I keep listening.
The warm noon sun
is fading.
Soon, the fly and I
will go our separate ways.
I have a home to return to—
no rush, unlike the fly.
And yet,
why am I so restless?
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