By a plain poet

Whether my verses are to find a plenty soil,
A soil that gives reason to the weary toil,
Whether the season will have come with care,
With a care just as my verses were fair.

Ah! The ages are against the written riches,
The soil is ruined by hidden wretches
Who dwell in the bushy swamp of ignorance,
Oh! None knows the toil of spirit hence.

Here’s the age of evil machines… Wrath!
Wrath! You spoilt my soil and path!
Wrath! You stepped on my seed and fruit!
Wealth?! You and your age toil in ruth!

What a pity I feel for your empty heart!
Hear! Hear the bitter plaint of my art.
Look! How my cry will dry out your land.
Shame! Shame on your illiterate hand!

Whether the now-time chokes my plantation,
Whether it’s all crushed by the nation,
But once, one of your sons will find my seed,
There’s coming my growing art in the deep.

Benyamin Bensalah


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