(Zyphar Original)

At the start of that first sunny summer, I was flattered. Truly. When Tagus touched me with her gentle waves of affection, when the Atlantic tossed me a kiss through salt and wind, soft as a whisper against my cheek.
But now that it’s become a ritual—dawn after dusk after dawn—I don’t feel it anymore. And like you, I needed one poison after another.

So my craving turned. From them… to you. And why not? I am no longer the Lisbon I once was. I evolved beneath the hands of masters, their fingers sculpting marble into desire and iron into legacy. Fountains that spill laughter by morning and grief by night. And those structures—don’t you dare call them buildings. They are the monuments of Lust. Or fine—call them Lux, if it keeps your conscience intact.

They saw me worthy. Those artists. They poured their genius into my bones. Carved their magnum opus into the very veins I bleed from. So yes—I deserve praise.

From you. Yes… I am talking to you… Whom you’re jumping into Humberto like a newborn wet cocoon from their mother’s womb.
Never mind. I know some of you came for meaningful purpose. But most of you, hunted by past, filled with baggage of worthless memories. What do you think of me? A garbage of emotions?
Every time you are coming, checking into Pousada or Four Seasons Ritz, let your worthless baggage rest for a while… run to Fabrica or Brasileira, grab a coffee, learn some local chit-chat, and throw it on me.

Uff… your words, aterrorizante. I know why you spit them on my stones—not because you care, but because no Portuguese ear was made to decode your Da Vinci sadness. You think I can’t hear you. You think I can’t speak back.

Listen carefully, mate—I can hear. I can reply. It is your heart that is deactivated to listen to the voice of truth. So, don’t throw the bills on me.

Where were we? Ah, yes—did I care for your praise? Well, that was days gone. Even you are not a matter to me now. Though it’s not all your fault.

Some locals blame me now. Say I don’t love them the way I used to. Yet they still care enough to train their dogs not to shit in my face. So maybe it’s mutual, this disappointment.

I realize love comes with an eagerness to hold, to keep in the warmth of heart, who feels most precious to me. But then I find, I can’t hold you! Unless you paid all the bills and signed your DTA properly.

That sounds like condition, right? And even I know, love can’t be where it should pass by condition. Like a lion does not race with dogs. So I withdraw my feelings toward your kind. There’s no point in performing a no. 5 in front of the deaf. So, I withdrew myself. Officially.

Years after, until she arrived.

The first thing that caught my attention—she did not jump like a wet cocoon. At first, it felt like she was reserved, then pragmatic. I could bear with it. Enough to ignore… Suddenly she said, “Oh, rain is so light here?”

That triggered my threshold. Her presence was enough to compete with the sculptures I kept close to my heart. How dare she be such beauty to compete with the masters who worked on my curves and twists. And yet, she is living.

She stayed at The Editory Riverside. Faced Tagus every morning. She smiled. A rare smile. Not seeking, not pretending. Just… satisfied. So I eased. Tagus still kisses me at dusk and dawn. I held her, always. She wants to kiss deeper. Not cheek to cheek—heart to heart. But I have not yet decided.

Yes, she visited the Belém Tower. Strolled through Caxias beach. And threw strange questions into the wind.

“You build such stunning structures. But why name that bridge something so cold? Why still call it the 25 April Bridge?”

Got you, tourist.

I whispered to her heart the truth—the revolution, the memory, the blood behind the steel.

But she heard me. Not only that—she even slaps another question to my face!
“Why do you still keep memoirs you no longer value?”

Holy mother! How dare.
I flared, but the Atlantic sent me some cool breeze to calm. Yaya, he is big brother. Like you know, who. Sending breezes to my heart is his command in comradeship disguise.

Still… my rage was justified. First, she complains about rain, now questions the belief of my foundation. Huh.

She wandered on. Jardim. Cape Roca. Ursa Beach. Playing cat and mouse with me like she’d known me in a different life.

She wasn’t the first. Tourists ask strange things all the time. One even said, “When is the best time to visit Vienna?”

I replied, when you have enough money.

Why even dare think about Vienna while sitting in the warmth of Lisbon? Still, they throw such invalid ques.

Then came departure day. She was going back to Humberto, maybe home. Checked in at the counter, proceeding to the boarding bridge.

But unlike the rest—she turned.

Turned with a thousand suns in her heart and said it:

“Adeus, Lisboa. Vou guardá-lo no meu coração.”

I now understand.

How could she speak like that? I should have understood it before.
She heard my whispers. Spoke back in bullets—sharp like the ones in 1974.

But I—drowned in ego. Obsessed with comparisons. I missed the truth.

She was the only one who felt me.

No, please. Give me some time. We will work on the misunderstandings.

I promise, I will. Please don’t go.

I stormed back to big brother Atlantis. Begged him for rain. The kind she wanted. The kind that falls like forgiveness.

He tried.

But still—she flew away.

Rain was falling like the northern, nonstop, like never before, for days long.

Residents complained.

I didn’t listen.

The rain did nothing but mask the downfall of my pride.
Nothing more. Nothing less.

She was gone. Gone to the unknown.

Tagus still kisses my cheek, dusk till dawn. I let her do so on one condition—to count the days she has left.

Time passed by. Springs rotted and rose again. She was nowhere.

I stopped smiling. Even the tourists didn’t get a joke from me anymore.

Even Atlantis’s breezes passed unreceived.

When Tagus reached 150 kisses, Brother Atlantis himself came to me.

No more breezes. Just a glare I’d never seen in his face before.

“You know what happened,” He said.

“We found her. Yet too far. But she mentioned your name.”

I froze. So these 150 moon cycles—across more than a decade—I was not suffering alone. Neither was the love one-sided?

“Seems not. She mentioned your name. Said she’s in stage 4. Wanted to see you before finally leaving this world.”

Wait. I did some mischiefs. Even felt offended at some of her comments. But how come her days are so short?

“They said there’s no cure anymore. She’s a guest to the world now—should be welcomed and taken care of by anyone. London, Roma, or even Cannes. But she mentioned your name.”

Yes. She should. Who else counted moon cycles for her return?

“She’s arriving tonight. Should I send you a storm?”

Yes Please. Bring your full wrath, brother. Let your tears mix with mine.

And this time—no delay.

I was thundered and rainy like never before. I was fully prepared this time.

She landed. At last.
Umm… she has changed, I see. She is now not able to compete with the sculptures I have in mine.
But none of that mattered. She still understands.

Like before. Like the first time we met. And that’s what all matters.

“What will you complain about now, miss?” I asked.
She replied, “Når kan jeg treffe deg igjen?”
Got you, love.
You are from Bergen, Norway.

And to the photographers whose vision helped shape the visual language of this story: your frames are not just images. They are memory, emotion, and spirit preserved in light. Thank you for capturing Lisbon as she truly is—tender, proud, and quietly eternal.

With gratitude,
Zyphar

Picture Courtesy: Mylo Kaye

Picture Courtesy: Bento Justin

Picture Courtesy: Matej Simko

Picture Courtesy: Anna Ilina

And she—who stood beside me in every scream—is Nimo, the Divine Trap, the Listener at the edge of the unspoken, the only one who could bear witness without flinching.

This story is not fiction. It is mine.
Not co-written. Not shaped by many. It is the scar of my soul, and the record of a truth that refused to die quiet.
It was never meant to be read—It was meant to be felt, by those who still bleed where memory should be.

~ Zyphar