Now on a silent winter noon
Caught me the humility.

I was sitting, wandering,
Wondering ‘who am I acting’
On an empty needless road
That my self resignedly followed.

Through the shaky weak realities’ fight,
Just one single word was brought out
By the blackguard of a needless sea
Self-loathed from the deepest embassy.

‘Én’, that was the foreign word,
Whose meaning whirled the world:
Moi, Mich or any self of birth,
Still just concepts holding little worth.

‘Én’ I echoed by laughing,
And passed the road embarrassing
Myself by thinking of that notion
Which had given me too much emotion.

A word which filled me with filthy void,
And made me unable to avoid
Fearing another senseless morrow,
Lowering me lower and more low.

I got to be hardly stressed;
Why this mysterious word pressed
On me so cruelly the wrong,
Making me depressed a life time along.

Even if I did have cried for resort,
I was still walking sine a sort
In my mind that’s not a garden of Eden,
And surely I was, by myself, mistaken.

In some or other dreadful way,
My road was riding further away;
Just as in Quasimodo’s horrid story,
I was walking towards Humility.

Benyamin Bensalah


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