Cloudy mountains brighten the sky,
Bringing cloumsy days and darken nights.

No weathering draws conclusion here;
Memories paint illusions there.

Where the thickest blackness is,
Dwells no rain, but the driest recklessness.

Where the beacon breaks the fleecy fences,
Dwell the drops of human senses.

Human hands draw but paradox,
While Paradise hides behind Gordian knots.

The beauty of mysteries ever hurts a lot,
Even dark miseries can’t clear its spot.

Benyamin Bensalah



It’s been thousand years in a clumsy meander
Questioning questions without any answer.

Being a genius; I must find solution,
Why my heart is inside her pollution.

She is a true radioactive source,
Flaring up the dark essence of my soul’s.

I approached the fact that I am affected;
Telling her within all the rules respected:

Please, my pureness, I implore!
You and I are a wondrous lore!

Please, my wonder, I do not lie!
Even to your father I’d give a try!

Please, my goodness, you turn me out good!
Say I’m in your friendzone. Say the sooth!

She won’t say that ever, neither the sooth,
But I feel our souls harmoniously smooth.

In doubt, smoothness is just a bunch of spikes,
Causing me pain pain and thousand whys.

Why she lives so pure, why I do,
Why she doesn’t see me as I do.

Even my own existence had been to fool,
If I was worth life at least as a tool.

She warned me, not to write to her-
I liked it as a masochist the dolour.

I applied the warning of my mistress,
Knowing that I deserve only pain and stress.

Then, when I saw her, I turned my head,
She’s better to see me arrogant than sad.

In a sudden, I found a blossom without sense,
She was in need of my soul’s dark essence.

I kept sharing, being happy,
For I can make her happy.

I’ve become a bee, steady,
Letting my flower to study.

We’ve been experiencing well,
Being together, fearing hell.

However, the problem is still active,
I can’t stop thinking of my radioactive.

I feel my dark essence shouldn’t be dark,
I feel her brightness needs my art.

I’m not a choosy person, just a tool,
Neither am a player, just a fool.

Being less genius, I found no law for this,
I’m await for God may He will solve this.

Benyamin Bensalah


Phantom Homesick

I’m homesick of a home that I’ve never belonged.
I’m homesick of a place that has never belonged to me.
I’m homesick of a land to that I will never belong.
I’m homesick of a space that will never belong to me.

I miss her brightening scenery.
I miss her intangible mystery.
I miss her enlightening piety.
I miss her blinding wizardry.

My mind’s kept living in her void.
My eyes have been still looking for her face.
My soul’s kept her for ever joined.
My heart’s still ached from her out-torn space.

I miss a land that’s not mine.
You love a land that’s not thine.
Somehow I must miss Palestine.
Somehow you must love Palestine.

I’m sick of the homes that somehow belong to me.
I’m sick of the places that will never be thine.
I’m sick of the lands that are keeping me alive.
Nevertheless, I can feel her pain as mine.

Benyamin Bensalah


Miss Mysterious

Miss Mysterious is not a girl,
She’s a more complex creature,
A woman in form of a pearl,
          *But shhh!*
She receives no such feature.

I met her in a magical day,
How could I forget about it:
She claimed words in a way-
I’d not even dreamt about it.

I asked my friend to justify,
If what I experience is real,
He left me without saying hi;
She set me to a new realm.

Mysterious how she plays:
She smiles, I smile,
I smile, she smiles and veils,
         *Oh God!*
In a pious style of smile.

I saw her crossing the class,
She just crossed my heart,
‘Surely she’s of a noble class’,
That was said by my heart.

Her dress’ been unique as her:
Crazy shoes and baby blues,
While the time’s stopped by her,
*I try to stop to admire her*
Then I loose, loose, loose.

My thoughts are confused,
As my feelings,
My every single word’s opposed,
By her sayings.

She’s been Miss Mysterious,
She’s white pure skin,
      *I admire*
She’s white pure thoughts,
      *I desire*
A smile on her chin.
*For that, I would die*

Benyamin Bensalah


My country for a horse

My country for a horse, and my horse for a girl,
Bearing the manner of the dearest creature on Earth –
The deserts’ life-saving waters are for her,
Just to see her again,
The antidotes of all the diseases on Earth for her,
Just to hear her voice again.

Since there’s no countryside so pleasing as hers,
Since there’s no thing so appeasing as her daitiness –
The gallop of her mind and the bounces in her language,
I’m in an old senile love with her seasonal changes…
Even after her mysterious disappearance,
Maybe never coming back again, but I’m looking for her.

Benyamin Bensalah


Mist Mysterious

A fog in the whitest colour has been following her
Like spectral shawls caressing her back.
In her face, it brightly swirls, hiding and enlightening her
Like illusive daydreams of an insomniac.

A white mist has danced around her deadly mysteriously,
Pushing the world into long oblivion.
In the center of it, she were standing lighthousely,
Calling the attention of a Hungarian.

Like a cyclone, she flew away with that mysterious mist,
Leaving only dim ruins and empty nests.
I was lost in her, but there’s no other mist I would get lost,
Missing her only in my every breaths.

Benyamin Bensalah


A crossroad-load

Roads go crix-crax
As life does.
When they cross,
A story comes
With its secrets,
With its loads.

There’s a crossroad
Where’s a tree.
Under the tree,
There’s a load
Secretly burrowed
That no one should see.

Where’s the crossroad,
A tree is seen
Who has only one sin
That it is sorrowed
By the secret burrowed
Under the tree.

On the crossroad,
Leaves are seen.
They are keen
Since they’re sorrowed
By written tears followed
That everyone can see.

Where’s the crossroad,
Mortals were seen.
When trees weren’t seen,
Both were mellowed.
They eternally burrowed
A secret under a tree.

There’s the crossroad
Where’s the tree.
Under the tree,
There’s the load
Secretly burrowed
That no one would feel.

Benyamin Bensalah


Fragments of Irreality

I’m short of feelings and reasons to live,
Like a sort of puppet in a grotesque show –

I’m like a sort of rejected stupid puppy
Who doesn’t know why and how he’s alone –

You, even by passing by me, are guilty,
For having left me, after giving me hope –

How cruel, seeing a condemned to death,
Passing by him, not even saying him Hello –

But blimey! I’m not blaming, but me,
Who other could be guilty for being me –

Indeed, I owe you to thank you,
For giving a last sweet illusion to me –

To a puppy who’s empty of envy,
Having no breed, nor greed; full freed –

I’m a sort of shameless liar,
Who plays that he lives day to day –

But I’m short of any lie when I say,
I loved seeing you passing by the way.

Benyamin Bensalah


A mysterious moment

More I open your empty chatbox
Than I open my mouth.
More I type and delete right off
Than I write at large.

You’re my muse, a wisp, a disease,
Only your whisper,
But your whisper!
May bring ease or unease.

You’re not a monster, not a beaut,
Not a genius, not a brute.
I don’t know who you are,
I don’t know.

Like tasting a glass of rapture:
Hey! Another glass, or the bottle!
Where is your magical source anyway?
I mind to possess, you.

I don’t want to possess,
Neither I want to be possessed-
I just want to feel,
I just want to feel, anything.

I thought it’s a mystery,
But you are a human.
My mindframe is a mystery,
I am less humane.

Horses are gorgeous!
You love birds, kids, their huskies.
But I’m a mystery.
I feel all but what a human feels.

My reality is a curved mirror,
Who would tell I’m wrong,
I see, I copy you, you fool!
It’s a mistery.

It’s a mysterious moment, is it:
You feel my unsent letters!
You feel many things, human!
But the less I feel, I feel better.

Mr Mysterious you’re looking for?
We must be wrong, lady.
This world lacks mystery, Miss.
But in another dimension, Inshaallah.

Benyamin Bensalah