Streets That Remember
Old Chittagong doesn’t sleep,
It dreams with open eyes—
Cracks in pavement speak in tongues,
Where my childhood silence lies.
I ride through lanes of memory,
Where shutters rattle like song,
Where tea steam carries stories,
That have lingered far too long.
A boy once walked here barefoot,
That boy was quietly me,
Now I spin through alley shadows,
On wheels that set me free.
Mosques like stone-bound poems rise,
Above the call to prayer,
Blue-tiled walls hold whispered names,
Of saints and rebels there.
A banana seller nods at me,
Her face worn like the street,
She’s been here through every storm,
In rain, in dust, in heat.
Kites still fly from rusted roofs,
Like hopes we let go high,
And radios still bleed old songs,
That make the old walls cry.
The bricks beneath are breathing,
Their pulse beneath my tread,
They carry war and wedding songs,
Of voices long since dead.
Every turn of pedal writes
Another line in sand,
A courier with poems tucked
In callused, working hands.
The shops smell of coriander,
Of mustard oil and ink,
A rickshaw squeals, a child laughs,
I stop. I pause. I think.
The street cat curls beneath the stall,
Like it owns the fading light,
While azan spills into the dusk,
Soft threads of gold and white.
This city doesn’t welcome all—
But it never turned me away.
It taught me how to ride with grace
Through chaos and decay.
So I carry its breath on my back,
Its stories in my gear,
Not just a rider, but a page
In a book it holds dear.
Old Chittagong remembers me,
Even when I am gone—
For every street I rode today,
Will echo when I’m done.
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