Shovel, hoe and big bell

To burry the past for good,
to hurry the present and bring it forth,
to worry not what the future would hold;
I just need a shovel, a hoe and a big bell,
letting it hack and clatter and gong,
thinking nothing can go wrong.

To burry the present for good,
to hurry the future and bring it forth,
to worry not what the past could hold;
I just need a hoe, a big bell and a shovel,
letting it smack and dong and flatter,
knowing nothing does matter.

Benyamin Bensalah



The Past been a nightmare to wake from,
sometimes eating up the present,
being unable to tell whether it has an end;
the Future been the past’s mirror image,
warning signs or either sirens’ songs,
nothing that possibly cannot go wrong;
I was likely anchored, cornered to Present,
more like pulling the chains than living,
but this was already much from a dead being.

I walked every step with a blind resignation,
a person died and revived in me,
like someone stealing life and trying to flee;
the anchors I tried to undress so hard
kept undressing me slowly,
and here I am standing like nothing can control me;
the anchors I were fighting, life, have gone,
it feels no more grief, no more agony,
I’ve reached freedom through fatal cavity.

There’s no past I could face anymore,
none of me waits me in the future,
but here I am where I could have been sooner;
losing the pain through losing life,
I am free with a huge cavity,
and I am as ready to live as to face mortality;
I feel eager, no more than any,
just to live a bit more,
imagining there’s an anchor that makes me stay more.

Benyamin Bensalah


Cyanide questions

I’d be happy if I had some cyanide –
who wouldn’t be tho?
Is it a normal thing to think or I should hide
that I’m not enjoying the show?

Can I even ask questions –
are we really allowed?
There are so many absurd suggestions
nowadays, done by the crowd.

It’s been a long time that I can’t follow –
where is it going?
It’s one of the pills hard to swallow
I know, and the list’s ongoing.

I was born without my consent –
aren’t we all after all?
But it’s still me who’s out of my own content
like a soul stuck inside a doll.

I’d be happy if I had some cyanide –
would not be anyone if I hadn’t, tho?
The fuss of anger, “I hope you die”
hits me every time “Oh, me too, me too”.

Benyamin Bensalah



Where it will be gone
my pain
when it leaves Earth’s surface
leaves my body
leaves me?

Will it feel alone
without me
like I myself did
all the time

Will it miss me
like I did miss care
in my life?

Will it miss itself
without me
like I did miss myself
all alone
on my own?

Wherever it will be
I’d like it to know
that it’s alright
and we did have
quite a road.

Benyamin Bensalah


Weakling creeking

*the door creeks*

“Ah, I’ve been waiting it for weeks.”

“It’s surely the Reaper, my ordered undertaker.”

*waiting for nothing*

“Maybe, he has another job. The door creeked, but he sent one of his slow helldog to do the job.”

*the void avoids my thoughts*

“Hellhound or a fluffy bunny, stop me feeling so numbly dummy!”

“Somebody, take my thoughts and take my voice! Don’t let it to be my choice.”


*no creeking*

Benyamin Bensalah



Like a child in the highest unbearable fever,
Under the heat, but shivering in cold cover,
I’m wishing for care.

Those long, careless years behind me,
Graved, graved and graved inside me,
“I – I don’t care.”

Like a drill thrilling inside a small nut,
Only shivering emptiness remained in me, not
even “I don’t care.”

Even if it’s not spoken, but I cry for a hand,
Even if its death’s, but please pretend,
That I’ve got care.

Benyamin Bensalah


Waiting for the train

I’m waiting for the train,
Far away from the stations,
Far astray in sensations.

I’m waiting for the train,
In an empty thorny cover,
In the emptiness thrown over.

I’m waiting for the train,
Taken my last seat, the mud,
Taking no more worldly drug.

I’m waiting for the train,
Looking backwards nought,
Looking forwards no thought.

I’m waiting for the train,
There’s no other to wait for,
There’s no other to wait for.
I’m waiting for the train.

Benyamin Bensalah


Pierre Reverdy: The song of the dead (p.40)

I’ve passed too many dark lines
And I can’t come back
I covered my features with salt
and I no longer have a place in the world where I’ve belonged
Searching in the sun
Seeking in the darkness
And Iooking into your heart for an impossible echo
Towards the trails of boredom exiled in yourself
Or even beyond

Benyamin Bensalah


Translated from the French poem of Pierre Reverdy, “Le chant des morts(p40)”.