Three butterflies

Once upon a time, there have been
three little butterflies –
so happy, sadly never seen –
under the lightblue skies.

They were but dancing all around
on fields been flared by light –
where flowers’ petals were the ground –
in yellow, red and white.

But all at once, the sky darkened
calling clouds out of chrome –
Yellow, Red and White disheartened –
It was time to go home.

                      ***

The three butterflies aimed their hut
reaching it with the storm –
drops by drops, but the hut was shut –
need’ to find a new dorm.

Yellow came: the yellow tulip!
While Red said the red one –
Going with White’s similar tip –
They went’ check one by one.

Reaching each tulip, they begged as
let us in, dear palace –
only one colour, the petals’ –
they found closed chalice.

                      ***

The red tulip let but Red in
and so on the others –
butterflies stayed ‘gether, wetting –
dying as true brothers.

They hid under a bigger leaf
where the wind still reached them –
fair moment to do disbelief –
but they still prayed the sun:

Bright sun! Dry our wet pollen-wings!
Bright up sun! Let us fly! –
The sun heard the cry of their song’s –
It became lightblue sky.


Original Hungarian prose of Jékely Zoltán: A három pillangó.

Benyamin Bensalah

30.07.2018

György Faludy: Learn this poem of mine

Learn this poem of mine
because how long this book will be by your side?
If it’s yours, it will be borrowed,
ending in a public library,
and if it’s not: its paper is so crappy,
it will turn yellow, will break, will be raggedy,
will dry out, will shred, will swell,
or it will catch fire calling upon hell,
two hundred and forty degrees is enough –
and what do you think how hot it is, how tough
when a big city becomes ash, burning down?
Learn this poem of mine.


Learn this poem of mine
because soon there will be no book to find,
there will be no poet and no rhyme,
and your car won’t have gasoline,
there won’t be even rum to be drunk,
since the shopkeeper won’t open the shop,
and you may throw out your money,
because the moment is coming with agony,
when your screen instead of image
will transmit a ray of death and cellular damage
and because there will be no one to help,
you will realize the only thing that remains left
as yours, is what your forehead has dined,
you hold.  Give me a place inside.
Learn this poem of mine.


Learn this poem of mine,
and tell me when it’s the deadline
of the seas littered with alkali,
and the industries’ puke already
covers all soils
and grounds, like the drool of snails,
if all of the lakes were killed,
and destruction is coming crippled,
if the leaf is rotting on the trees,
the sources bubble up disease,
and the evening wind brings you cyan:
if you put on the gas mask fine,
you can recite this poem of mine.


Learn this poem of mine,
to let me accompany you. Belike,
and you still survive this millenium,
and a few short years will become,
because the bacilli’s raving
revenge may fail,
and the technology’s greedy
divisions have more power
than the globe moving extremely –
bring it up from your memory
and sing another time to me
these lines: since where it has gone
the beauty and love?


Learn this poem of mine,
to let me accompany you if I’m no more alive
when you will be bothered about the house
where you live because there is no water nor gas,
and you hit the road to find a shelter,
to eat buds, seeds, and other gather,
to find water, get a club,
and if there is no free land, to use that club,
to take the land and kill the man –
there, let me amble with you, man
under ruins and above them
and whisper to you: Undead,
where are you going? Your soul is frozen,
no sooner than you leave the town.
Learn this poem of mine.


It could also be that up there
there is no more world, and you down there,
deep in the bunker you ask:
how many more days until the poisonous
air through the lead sheet
penetrates the concrete?
Then what was for and what worth had
the man, if he arrives to such an end?
How can I send you comfort,
if there is no right but discomfort?
Shall I confess that I was always for you
thinking of you for many, many years
through sunlights and through the nights,
and even I died a long time ago, I am still for you
looking through my two sad eyes?
What else could I tell you before I resign?
Forget this poem of mine.

Benyamin Bensalah

15.04.2020

Translated from the Hungarian poem of György Faludy, “Tanuld meg ezt a versemet”(1980).

A can of beer

Taken life as a divine test,
God may suprise us well;
You may be probed in a sudden,
As others been as well.

Once – it happened somewhere-
Events of a crescent’s,
Among proper white houses, and –
Inhabitants like saints.

Good, bearded men wearing white robes,
And meek, hidden women –
Under beard-black spacious chador,
Lived there godly driven.


***


Men, hand by hand left the crescent,
Helping one another,
While women took their child to school,
Wearing pious chador.

They were sweeping other’s forefront,
And taking other’s child;
They used to live in harmony,
Till mildness became wild.

Once, before the sunrise prayer,
A beer can in the dawn –
Was thrown into the crescent’s ground,
And the purity was gone.


***


“What a poisonous surprise is-
There, a greeny beer can,
Where alcohol was never seen”-
Was thinking the first man.

Passing by it without a word,
Frowned likely the next one:
“Who could possess this possessed can?”
Escaping the third one:

The Iman came to lead the pray’,
He saw and threw the can:
“Oh God, none of us could drink it!
I throw away the can!”


***


One saw him removing the proof,
While the others gossiped:
“The Imam could not drink the beer,
But the question: who did?”

The harmony, trust disappeared;
No woman sweeped but hers,
None took anyone’s child to school,
Men were no more brothers.

Families whispered among them –
“These are staying astray”
“Those must be disbelievers” –
End of the old array.


***


Once – it happened somewhere-
Events of a crescent’s,
Among red and blue houses, and –
Unveiled inhabitants.

A can of beer appeared to them,
Poisoning their prayer,
Changing their pious life, into –
A poisonous nightmare.

Taken life as a divine test,
God may suprise us well;
You may be probed in a sudden,
As others been as well.

Benyamin Bensalah

16.09.2017

Fazekas Anna : The Old Dame’s Deerling

At the Matra, in a country,
Lives my elder and dear auntie,
Warmhearted, hardworker and hale,
She is from whom I know this tale.

A bumbling deerling on a day,
Went astray onto the highway,
He fell over a fallen trunk,
Breaking his leg with crack and clunk.

While the poor was sadly weeping,
The old lady stopped there, seeing.
Taking him up, right to the lap,
She took the fawn home for a nap.

Curing him and cherishing him,
Not just healing his broken limb,
But giving him fresh hay, water,
As if she were his dear mother.

Katy the cat and Doug the dog,
Nestled to him next to the stove’s log,
Sharing humanely their one nest,
They could not hurt the little guest.

The fawn’s leg is quickly mending,
He could dance without pretending,
He could dance since he is not prude,
However, he wasn’t in the mood.

His doleful brown eyes in the far,
Are hanging on the morning star,
While the morning’s red-purple lights,
Are playing on the mountain’s sights.

Evening winds are chasing the haze,
Then, they get lost in the hills’ maze.
“My fresh crops are waiting for you,
Come home, deerling! We all love you!”

Tears sprang into the deerling’s eyes,
He wished to go back, without lies,
Only if his mother wouldn’t worry,
Only if his auntie wouldn’t pity.

Day and night he wants to go back,
Whither the smooth grass is his snack,
Where are fancy fields of flower,
Waiting for their deerling brother.

Where squirrels are jumping around,
Woodpeckers are hitting the trees’ crown,
Cuckoos are singing gay sonnets,
And ants are wearing heavy puppets.

He’s waited by the stream, by the wind,
By the running clouds there sky-pinned,
By the dewy blue-bell flower,
By the fields in colour-shower.

The old dame is weeping for him,
However, she won’t hold back him,
Each one has a home to live in,
Being deer woods or human housin’.

Escorting him until the gate,
The dame must tip-tap back and wait,
Waving to him until seeing:
“Farewell, my dear little deerling!”

Pacing slowly, ambling stilly,
Door is clacking, curtain’s swishy,
She is watching her dear from there,
For last, he may look back to her.

Her helpless little animal,
Hurries more and more his footfall,
And then, as fast as the lightning,
He is on the mountain, climbing.

But on the top, under the sky,
He turns back to say a goodbye:
“God bless you, field, and my old dame” –
Like the wind, he left as he came.

The summer fleets, the leaf falls down,
Every beech tree balds its ex-crown,
Snow blankets the houses, the lawn,
The old lady’s living alone.

Nature’s waking up, flowering,
She doesn’t forget her deerling,
The Earth is turning once and twice,
The gate is knocked by someone nice.

She looks out the window lattice,
What a strange nightly guest that is?
Moonlight beems upon the country,
She opens wide the wooden entry.

Her hands opens in hugging blow:
A deer, deerling and a mother doe,
Standing there, then letting them in,
Her heart’s beating, recognizing:

Her deerling became a deer dad,
Having a son now being sad:
His forefoot’s broken a little;
They visited the hospital.

He asked her with his bare eyes:
Please Dame, cure my son with your ties,
Don’t let him crying dear auntie,
May God return you your bounty.

Mist is afore them, fog behind,
They dressed the cape of night to hide,
Leaving their little in her arm,
Knowing, she will cure all his harm.

The little got cured one by one,
He was almost able to run,
And before the beech throws its mast,
The young buck is in the forest.

At the Matra, village border,
The Old Dame within the portal,
She’s not alone why she would be,
Cold or hot, she’s a busy bee.

She’s surrounded by bucks and does,
They’re coming back as visitors,
Winter-summer, from year to year,
They bow their head to Mother Deer.

The village folks loving her too,
They give her nicknames, one or two:
The Old Lady within the dear,
Or just simply Dear Mother Deer.

Red poppy, carnation, sage bloom,
Are decorating her mild room,
In big vases and little jugs,
Rainbow colours like made of drugs.

A flower from Steven Peter,
Another from Flower Esther,
A third one from Johhny Seral,
Surely, they’ll be good persons all.

The wild flowers followed by songs,
The room’s full of musical tongues,
Children singing is far and near,
While laughes and cries Dear Mother Deer.

At the Matra, in a country,
Lives my elder and dear auntie,
Warmhearted, hardworker and hale,
Her golden heart is in this tale.

Salt loaves wait the little deerlings,
Swiss rolls wait for the new-comings,
Be her guest, you too, I just say:
This is the tale’s end; run away!

Benyamin Bensalah

11.10.2017

Translated from the Hungarian long poem of Anna Fazekas, “Öreg néne özikéje”.

Roux Meow et Jolly Wat

Act I.

Two broken hearts, both alike in dignity,
In Algiers, where we lay our scene,
Were sorted, despite of their naive purity;
Their true blood judged them unclean.

The boy’d been a noble, humble creature,
Within his soul a hidden labyrinth,
One by one unwordly, magical features;
But his side was without any hint.

The girl’d been a loving, hoping angel,
Within her soul thirst to know,
Knowing no that knowledge is danger;
She learnt and taught sorrow.

***

The lovers were no lovers, but of God,
With plenty heart and true soul,
They wished a wish that sounded odd:
A simple life after their cruel.

Their parents’ old sins were their seal,
That had made trace to theirs,
When they met, they had a pure deal:
A white page after dark years.

Unhappiness is a lone, thirsty beast,
It dévores peace and love,
It may dress up for hundreds of feast:
Causing tragedies like above.

***

Frequency, true love and purity,
They are only blunt blades,
When it comes to cutting authority:
Without its parental aids.

This story is not a new story,
Romeo and Juliet,
Two broken hearts shorn of their glory:
Even if they healed when they met.

All their attributes of art and piety
Were burnt by an Ogre’s wrath
Who cursed every drop of serenity:
All that we ever, never hath.




Act II.


A year, two years before that they met,
Roux Meow didn’t know his Wat,
Even if his friend kept her captive;
Roux Meow’s been so inactive.

He had modest traits toward his friend,
Avoiding to look at his girlfriend,
So, the first time that he saw her;
Was in a club of writer-drawer.

They knew each others as fine friends,
They enjoyed that none pretends,
Then, when they started a new chatbox;
It was proven as it never stops…


***


In contrary, Jolly Wat has known her cat,
She saw him years before they met,
To avoid hot words, she liked his traits;
Dunno, what was the play of Fates.

After her man left with his funny cap,
Roux Meow came with another cap,
Changing the suits into shirts and kind words;
They made a new scene of lovely birds.

Such keywords flew around them in the sky,
As no-relationship, art and butterfly;
Their influence helped them to forget the past;
Their parents’ divorce and their ex.

***

Roux Meow’s heart was paralyzed by Palestine,
An adventure out of space and time,
While Jolly Wat was quartered by Qatar;
A nightmare-like bizarre terror.

These circumstances were like magnets,
Creating a collision like of Macbeth’s,
Two seemingly innocent playing with Destiny;
Calling their own blood as enemy.

He was a fighting lion on the Savannah,
She was just a flower- Subhanallah,
How come that ends bad something so good;
They only wanted a better mood.


Act III.


Darken forces came in form of his dad,
Whether God-sent or evil-sent,
Roux Meow and Jolly Wat became bad;
They’re born under a cursed tent.

His divorced father cursed and swore,
On her divorced mother’s lore,
How come that Meow wants a life;
After his dad’s life-long strife.

Roux Meow wished a pure marriage,
With some help that he merits,
While Jolly Wat just wanted carriage;
By someone whom she merits.

***

Roux Meow’s family like wild lions,
Sniffed around her little folks,
In their eyes, would ruin even diamonds;
Blackened everything their talks.

Roux Meow has no right to live, to love,
Jolly Wat has no right for thoughts,
Marriage is a mere marketplace of dove;
The family needs better attributes.

Her past is divorced and she is old,
Her family is a gypsy clan,
She uses magic and evil to hold;
Roux Meow as Peter Pan.

***

Roux Meow and Jolly Wat was asked,
So, are you pious fellow of God,
Then, ask God whether it will fairly last;
But we will against you working fraud.

Seeing the dark clouds coming near,
Roux Meow and Wat grieved,
They agreed to cut what has been so dear;
A beau world – no talk no stalk – leaved.

The world of her beautiful drawings fell,
His words of their world cleaved,
Their beautiful Algiers became itself the hell;
No “Let’s trick our mind, being naive’d”.


Act IV.


Roux Meow begged his monstrous house,
“Here I’ve come to choose my spouse-
Be upon my support for once in the life;
Let me face alone the lifelong strife.”

The dad: “Leave my house, leave my fam!
I won’t hear about your damn madame.
I swear on the Lord you’ll be both perished,
I won’t have peace till the girl vanished.”

Jolly Wat: “Oh, Roux Meow – Roux Meow!
I cannot find the why and how,
Why God sends us our blood as enemy –
While we avoided all His heresy?”

***

Despite of all maledictions and bad notes,
Roux Meow played Don Quixote:
He asked a favor from his sullen uncle,
To visit Jolly’s fam – they’re humble.

Though, Uncle Ashore had the same thoughts,
To separate the lovely folks.
So, he quickly put up the cloak of religion,
Asked for her dad from another region.

Roux Meow cried for him as his only hope,
Tho, they saw Roux under dope.
“The two families will have no relation!
Tebessians! What a humiliation!”

***

Racism clouds were not enough for them,
Fake-religion served the next slam:
“How dare you knowing her before me?
You wish to do adultery like me?”

As Uncle Ashore get the number of her dad,
(who’s been for Jolly Wat almost dead),
The Ogre Dad of Roux Meow rushed at him:
That his unknown daughter is a grim.

Oh, Roux Meow. Oh, Roux Meow, why?
Where is our Lord from the sky?
Is it really so sinful to wish to marry?
Disgrace is worse than cemetery.


Act V.


A cat-like brave man with a red beard,
A rabbit-like shyness in a hijab;
Worldly art of words she’d never heard,
That she colored by a design tab.

Two years of peace, Oh, Roux Meow,
Two years of peace, Oh, Jolly Wat;
They found in themselves a true fellow,
To talk ceaselessly since they met.

What could be the possible to cut the bound,
The bound of love that the fate created;
What could explain between them the wound,
The wound that the false faith created.

***

Curse on the course of fate, the parents,
And curse on the crafted faith of evil!
But, let me put no dirt on the pure events;
Say, Glory for this, even if it’s feeble.

Their past is not just past, but a dead future:
Wedding, fun, kids and what more;
Now, they are all just a hypothetical blooper,
And silence on two mouths or more.

Whether fate is stronger than faith?
Or contrariwise?
Are they for each other dead wraith,
Or they just silently revise?

***

Oh, Roux Meow! Oh, wise Roux Meow!
Look into the future, my dear.
Whether this is the end of the show,
Or the turning point is just near.

The now-dead, pious couple beaten by creed,
Shall they rise out of the tomb?
If yes, will they be sinful but ever-freed,
Or rather in a religious bloom?

Shakespeare fought for love and will power,
Ne’er for savages behind Ogric persuasion;
But fighting needs gun powder, not flower,
Nectars sweeten or cause intoxication.


Act VI.


A modern Romeo and Juliet we’ve become,
Said Roux Meow at last, numb;
Asking thousand questions like a dumb,
Thinking – thinking, taram-drum.

Is the sin in our stars, words or draws?
In our religion’s laws?
Or there were no sins at all, no flaws;
Was it perfect as it was?

Are there any others punished for their fraud,
Others than the two who loved?
Would they be punished, far, abroad?
Where is the Justice of God?

***

Life is a flow – with thousands of arms,
What if an arm suddenly charms,
Just follow the flow even if it harms;
You color the water with norms.

Either go with the flow or swim rather,
You can’t stop the course of water;
Up to you to be the sinner-swimmer lover,
Or the slave-sinless forgiver.

The truth of the end is at the end,
Then, the ends always depend;
So, worry on rather what is in the hand,
And focus onto live, not to pretend.

***

Roux Meow is Stoic, flowly flawless,
He loved for last; nevertheless;
Jolly Wat is a weaker-sex mistress,
She may regretlessly regress.

Tho’ the changes of their world is drastic,
Even if there’s no deadly tragic;
The sadness might make one pathetic,
And the other lunatic, gothique.

The sad story of a Cat and a Hare,
Written to be a lovely pair,
They will be ever for each, but where;
In silent prayers or a brave affair?

Benyamin Bensalah

22.06.2018

Where everything’s black

It’s not that I thought myself so clever,
I’ve just been born onto another level;
Far from simple human feelings,
Far, where my quill sings.

Oh, now, I would wish more love;
I wish more acts into my love,
But… I’ve had nothing worth,
But my words.

Even if she said: I live in your words,
She skipped me and my worlds,
From one day to another;
I wish I’d died rather…

While my worlds were falling apart,
Me thinking of my sweerheart;
What more could I give her
If words couldn’t infer.

Now, see how my words newly raved,
From where my soul is engraved;
Wishing its unloved body back
Where everything’s black.

***

I’m wordless, like a true living-dead;
She stole all my words that I had,
Some described her and love,
Some a flower, some a dove.

Wake up, stupid! You last moron!
You still believe in the Koran?!
Where love is devil’s heel,
Wives marked by seal?

Burn down beliefs, humans, memories!
You won’t need their glories
When you will be there;
In that dark sphere.

There, you’ll find peace in Nothing,
Don’t cry for another thing;
Love? Who’d love you?!
An empty queue…

Poorly, your veins in words outpour,
No vehemence, no thing to adore;
A chador, and a picture is back…
But, again, everything’s black.

***

I know that place – I tried escaping,
Not me, but my mindless feeling;
That I have to live anyway,
But, for whom, I’d stay…

A bright smile blinded my moments,
There’s darkness in all continents;
See that you have nothing to see,
No kingdom, no Annabelle Lee.

Rather, find your joy in a smoke,
That helps enjoy any joke;
Even if it’s about life,
Or any other strife.

Search a dark place and breath in,
That’s where you’ll get in;
Digged by your gloom,
A perfect tomb.

The life is full of childish lies,
At my tomb, crocodile cries;
“I wish he’d come back”,
But everything’s black.

***

I’m not a person who sees the morrow,
Carpe Diem. Despite of sorrow;
I try to enjoy this shit,
Despite of every hit.

My eyes, my heart and my whole body,
Are looking for none, nobody;
They wish to die,
Wish to die.

Whether it was the lie of my dark soul,
It may have a bright goal,
To save my sanity,
My insanity.

Sillily, I’m afraid of seeing a Lily,
Even if my grave is chilly,
A flower may try revive
Me, with another lie.

Thus, get away with the colour,
Stop this living horror,
Never turn back
Until it’s black.

***

There are words echoing, Ohhh,
There are only words echoing;
From a lost world,
My only world.

“Try to trick your mind and that’s all”,
*I cry* trick to insanity, pal?
Trick it to imagine you?
All we went through?

I wish I could trick it like that,
Living a dream till I’m dead,
Then, a kiss wakes me up;
“I’m sorry, bud”.

All the pictures living in me,
All that I am living in thee,
Are somehow gone,
But not undone…

So, I curse this world with all its beliefs,
That have destroyed my only relief,
Only hope to have a life payback;
Payback of everything black.

Benyamin Bensalah

05.09.2018

Satyric Love

Once upon… it was said by a fairy tale,
There lived a boy who had a hairy tail.
It wasn’t at all a misbecoming feature,
Only he was a lil woodland creature.

He was a lil faun, living among men,
Doubtlessly, he differed from them.
With a pail face and brown hairy chest,
His smiling eyes owned berryness.

Our nameless satyr was always jolly,
Was always thinking of some folly.
He was always jingling stupid riddles,
But he was alone with his giggles.

“Who doesn’t like the lilly-little,
Will never deserve any bibi-bigger.
I used to like my little hooves,
Why my butt deserves the boots?”

Being the little victim of our yarn,
He spent his whole life around the barn.
He was the famous hero of the hay,
Everyone giggled seeing his own ballet.

His whole life went to a disaster,
Due to the daughter of his master.
The noble princess played a role,
Playing with the poor creature’s soul.

She, without her father’s knowing,
Visited the faun as they were growing.
Scarcely was her reason intimate,
Whereas, she had been his only mate.

The folly faun had none to follow,
Only the girl been mean and hollow.
The whole court knew their secret,
That the mistress had a hairy pigglet.

Once, in the highlight of the noble mass,
The faunny guy made a confess.
He aimed the king of the great palace:
“Oh crowny daddy and other fellas..”

“I am serious for the first time;
My heart hurts as a wound from the lime.
I have found the mate of my life,
The faith has written you as my wife!”

The poor fellow aimed the girl with a rose,
From the mass a huge laugther arose.
“Don’t be so mad, dear daddy of the crown,
Your daughter will make happy this faun.”

The mass kept joking on this scene,
And the royal members’ silent scream.
“Don’t be so shocked, noble castle,
The palace will be stabled by this cattle.”

Here, the guards caught the creature,
With sharp words on his feature.
The king angrily ordered to exile for that,
But the princess cried for his death.

Since the sun was already going down,
They sent him to the prison of the town.
Tomorrow will surely bring a solution,
Even if it’s the poor creature’s execution.

Is this the unhappy end of our riddle,
An execution under a sad song of a fiddle?
Or maybe the prison hid another page,
Like a magical transformation of a mage?

Our satyr could turn into a prince,
Marrying the girl, being happy ever since.
Or he could escape from the cells,
Finding joy in drinks, drugs and belles.

But he only wanted to wait the morrow,
By the guillotine ceasing his sorrow.
The only thought he had, he had to die,
Then, he saw a lonely butterfly.

A joyful song was sung by the moth;
However, it had not even mouth:
“You are a noble satyr, not a stranger,
Your home and love is the nature.”

By the words, our hero woke up: “Yay!”
“I won’t be her husband, nor fiancé!
I am a free faun who needs no brides!”
And the man ran into the wilds…

The wedding guests – without being rude –
Asked: “why the groom ran away nude?”
“Why he is flirting with every single tree,
Answering nature’s call while we see…”

He was singing a stupid song, having fun:
“I will be only the nature’s funny fan,
No more problems of marrying my love,
When my beloved is merely a dove!”

Benyamin Bensalah

20.09.2016

The heartless regime

Once upon a time, there’s been,
In the animal world;
A heartless king, named Lionard,
Who must own all last words.

King Lionard – king of the forest,
Was well-well known woodwide;
From his strong determinations,
No animal could hide.

Be the snake under the bushes,
Be the dog on the yard;
Be any animal near the forest,
None could ‘scape Lionard.

           ***

B’ing rather fear’d than respected:
His words couldn’t be muted;
Woe is the poor one failing them,
For b’ing executed.

King Lionard had no mercy,
It was ever well-known;
Woe is the poor underling – who,
For last, might see his crown.

In a clumsy day, it happened:
Lord Wulf was called to see;
“I am starving, bring me to eat,
Or else, I will eat thee.”

           ***

Wulf – the Lord Chancellor was mad,
Madly running for a loan;
Tho, the council had one counsel:
“Thou are on thy own.”

Wulf in despair combed the forest,
If he could find a prey;
That time, he met Oxie – the bull,
Wulf aimed him with a pray:

“Oh, Oxie! You look dead uneased,
But I have solution;
Yor weight may kill you today -but,
I have magic potion.”

           ***

Oxie – the bull, followed Wulf’s lead,
“My friend may melt your lard!”
From a wood to a wood, walking,
Till they faced Lionard!

The famished king jumped up quickly,
Making escape the bull;
“Oh, king! Why you’ve done that?” Said Wulf,
Running after the bull.

Wulf reached Oxie, praying again:
“Stop! You’ll miss yor massage!”
“Wasn’t he to kill me?” asked the bull,
“Nah! You’ll see it’s massage!”

           ***

King Lionard devoured the half,
Then, said: “I need to drink-
You will be surveying my meat.”
Then, left him a blink.

Wulf – b’ing hungry itself – must move:
After a quick looking,
He ate up the heart of the bull,
When arrived the fooled king:

“You ate my part, the heart! You’ll die!”
Scream’d the king. “No, Highness! –
In fact that the bull came back, No!
No! It must be heartless!”

Benyamin Bensalah

28.09.2017

Bye Bingo

My cat rests in peace now, no more meow…

No more meow in the morning,
At noon when it’s boring,
Stopping my afternoon snoring,
Nights with its purring.

I wish I had some time with him for last…

Giving him my sandwich he asked,
My bed at its vast,
Watching him in the weather forecast,
Seeing him again in the past.

I wish to recause all the pain I might cause…

Not shouting at him with claws in my leg,
After eating, still keeping to beg,
Pushing me away coz he feels swag,
Leaving indoor his crap-tag.

I just want him back…

Benyamin Bensalah

18.09.2019