Shikh-spree 129

C’est pour Bingo qui changea ma vie.
Si Dieu le veut je la marie…
Cette sonnette prouvante que je l’écrire,
Dit: je sens plus pur que Shakespeare.

I considered love as a waste of time;
Fearful and flaming tongues of fire,
Possessing it, as if it would be mine,
Raising, feeding it high and higher,
Pouring all the essence of my heart,
My mortal clay as frozen carcass,
Tryna seek for warmth at her hearth,
Dreaming without holdin‘ purpose.
But now! The fire is smooth as water;
It flows jingling as a secret source.
No, Bingo! Drink not it‘s hot! Wait her!
Wait for it in God’s sake and course!
As well, I am waitin’ for you Bingo, just keep it hot;
Wait and let no bliss for Ibliss, but keep it for God.

Benyamin Bensalah


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


A perfect influence

Surely we think ourselves less, my dear,
Since we see ourselves through just a wasted reflection;
What an eye cannot see is its sister’s tear,
So, do not doubt in your own perfection:
Now, I am your third eye – your mirroring lense…

Hear my voice as if your own mouth were speaking,
Feel my leading and hinting as your sixth sense;
Since I am a thinking being of seeing,
For me, the world is perspective, but non-sense:
Without sharing with you, my life is just wasted experience…

As all in the world is, with the world itself,
We are no more, but our own perception;
Just trick your mind as it’s tricking itself,
If there’s no, indeed it is God’s perfection:
Rejoice on being His perfection now and hence…

Benyamin Bensalah


A thought of her

Mirrors can lie, but not her eyes,
She’s the reason I want to see the skies,
She and I are the best allies,
It can be seen without being wise.

Mirrors can lie that I’m not worthy to live,
But no lies can disguise that I deserve her love,
She makes me love to live,
By the only reason of her, to love and belove.

I can’t find words beautiful enough,
Describing her, us or what is between those,
But without her everything lose,
And with her everything’s enough, but her love.

Benyamin Bensalah


All in Me

I wished to find out who are you
Without fairy tales –
Without beau details –
Without love letters –
Though my heart flatters…
…while it’s dying,
Around you, thou never crying;
Only by rejoice and relief,
Feeding my belief…
…believing that my palpitations –
My pupils’ dilatations –
My hampered respiration –
Are blest of your ration.

Since you are the place where I live in –
The air I breathe in –
The bleeding’s hemoglobin –
The arteries’ vigor –
You are my eternal alter ego.

Benyamin Bensalah


The Pocket Poet’s Emerald

A pair of emerald eyes made a pauper-
To wish for a mountain of emeralds,
To provide a proper life for her:

I’ve been a man of no pretension;
My clothes with sockets-
-empty pockets.

I am giving restrained attention;
No countries with rockets-
-followed prophets.

I will promise her a convention;
The life of the prophets’-
-enow pockets.

I’d aspire to God’s protection;
The safety of this locket’s-
-enow pockets…

Benyamin Bensalah


Silence written

O! As nearly all mortal beings,
I’ve tasten already the silence of night –
Sometimes broken, but never by the sounds of mine.

O! I’ve tasten all of its flavours;
Like the silence stuck in other’s empty home –
But after all, the emptiness of my heart gongs even terribly more.

Alas! Why am I tasting like a poet;
With a beating and feeling heart on every gustatory buds –
Who could understand the silence more, than a mute poet after love?

O! I’ve not even tasten all its flavours;
Thou, the old naive words of ours still re-animate my mind –
Still, with silenced tongue and heart, what I barely believe that I’m still alive.

O! We’re not even nearly mortal beings;
No silence can muzzle my written words in the fate’s puzzle –
Even if my tongue is cut off and my buds are burnt, my love is immortal – written.

Benyamin Bensalah