The Cursed Child

My mother used to hit her stomach –
Vehemently, to deaden the pain.
“This baby – Oh! – shouldn’t be born” –
Cried with in her eyes a rain.

She tried to jump out of the window –
“Even if where I die is Africa…
I just wished a better life, but instead…”
I wish she would have had the stamina.

Then, in Hungary – back again –
Where I got conceived,
She did a try to sink me all by love –
The best love I’ve ever received.


My mother had known the mistake –
In getting me born here.
My mother had known the truth –
Before, before me.

She knew the vice of my birth,
Much better than Islam.
It’s not about being a bastard,
But being itself’s a harm.

Then, she tried to correct –
Raising me up with empty purse.
But all her lovely toil was hers,
Cuz I defined already life as a curse.


My mother could save the world-
Of many, letting it clean.
If the first hit on her stomach
Had been a bit more keen.

She loved me, tho. As others did, too-
But that love is sinful and wild.
Cuz there’s no place among livings
For a lifeless, cursed child.

Then, redeeming is coming-
Even if it’s not in form of holy spirits.
Death is free for everybody,
But a treasure for the one who merits.

Benyamin Bensalah


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