Village night

Dark, raw and cold is the night.
Surrounding and painting joy on my sight.

The noise is a deeply listening silence.
That has been – in daylight – a wild, mad trance.

The gray roads are sleeping in rest.
Forgetting the daylong toil and unrest.

Sleeping every man, every beast.
Maybe, my heart’s the only that still beats.

I’m energized from the tranquility.
Walking silently through the dark – mini city.

Lamplights cut the darkness sometimes.
On which the time’s committed a thousand of crimes.

Their old, weak and artifical glimmer.
Just makes the night more original and a way dimmer.

Those cracked concrete roads and glimmering lamps.
The sweeping-running world never waits for us saying thanks.

Now, the night is still silent, full of mountain air.
Thou, day to day, it’s being made unmade by a modern snare.

Thus, day to day I must wonder on the village night.
Since, it’s still a lone guard of the mother nature’s tranquilizer sight.

Benyamin Bensalah

29.07.2018

Translated from my Hungarian poem, “Falusi este” (2008)

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