Lőrinc Szabó: LIFE

Will it worth it? was it worth it?
Curve that was in line.
Where is the strength and the luck?
What casts you off? Who leads you in?
From her, to her, in her, for her,
at her, to her, though not, why not,
to here, from there, there too, not here,
then if, so that, and so, though not,
always, once, impossible,
oh, go on, no, not that, no, no,
sometimes though, never again,
with her, to there, for ever after:
how many opened and lost roads,
how many traps, how many zigzags,
dying slowly, killing fast,
inside the heart, out in fate,
and to believe there’s a winner – loser,
we get to the line:

was it worth it? will it worth it?

Benyamin Bensalah

30.08.2021

Translated from the Hungarian poem of Lőrinc Szabó, “ÉLET”.

Rain

Rain!
It’s pouring, lashing.
Looking out of the window, I say:
What a mercy of God it is:
All the orange, all the beans!
The soil is thirsty.

However I put up my shoes,
Jumping over puddle and puddle,
Running on my pitch in the mud,
Then, walking in hurry on the road.
The houses, the roofs are crying,
They make little rivers and waterfalls.

The men of the road blow cloud,
It’s the sign of the cold,
Though, the women are in tight dress,
Robes and high-heels on some,
They make funny the foggy scene,
By acting so contradictory.

Men are like watered cats,
Throwing their legs up the sky,
Making puffs of vapour in hurry;
While women, like heavy machines,
They stop longly before each water,
And hesitate like steamboats.

However, the crowd is one,
One nation of colorful umbrellas,
That awkwardly clash time to time,
But they move along together.
I hold none of their colour,
I’m just watching eyes.

I witness the rain,
With my whole body,
With the holes of my shoes;
Cold neck and frozen toes:
Though, I keep saying:
What a mercy of God rain it is!

Benyamin Bensalah

18.01.2017

Blue Banner

We are the nation of the sea,
who others could see her
as we see.

Not seeing her as she is, the blue,
but daily shilly-shally acting
of a sea of hue.

By morning, she calls for the light,
sounding smoothly murmur
against the night.

She is why the gloomy coasts revive,
her golden curves enlighten
the hurrying beehive.

By day, she is a mere Blue Queen,
the ace turquoise beauty
have ever seen.

Benyamin Bensalah

05.12.2015

Carpe Momentum Temporis


This step on the dust of the pavement,
stepped slowly and with passion,
reflects the magic of body
and this worldly physics:
What a dynamics!

That horn tooting in the wrooming,
human feelings in mechanics,
resonates the air with waves
of microscopic tsunamis:
What a composition!

In this garbage, that apple stump,
nature and city grabbed as one,
radiates an endless ending
of turning and returning:
The cycle of life!

This worth of that leaving moment,
been here, but now it’s Faraway,
creates newly lost happiness
of “it was” and ‘no worries’:
Persistent miseries.

Seizing every very moment as it is,
like the guy with no memories,
brings ecstasy to learning –
relearning thing to thing:
Micro-Recoveries.

Benyamin Bensalah

04.03.2020

Poor’s Treasure

A poor room homed me in the childhood
With cold stone walls and a leaky stove;
Some days were spent under cover
With a hoody, a hat and pair of glove.

Nathless, there was no poverty of food;
My mother managed well the stew
With rice, potatoes and some carrots,
Her care cook’d a lot out of few.

Beside, the careless neighbours stood
With a lil bowl of sugar and eggs,
Trading on a sip of juice for gossips,
Paying the fee of the one who begs.

Way-outie, we were never even gloomy;
Despite the days of water and light off,
Mother managed the waves of hardship
Like the sailor’s star never falling off.

Is a grace of God, the unfortunate broom
In which I scarce tasted thick happiness?
Sugar tastes sour after golden honey;
For rich, my treasure was unhappiness.




I enjoyed the oxford blue sky of the moon
While mom sweeped the streets for stubs,
I jumped up moon-high finding pennies
Far away the parties’ hubhubs.

What a pity I feel now, for all the poor
Who had money, goods and no misery;
They know nothing what is life like,
But for true rich, life itself is glittery.

Benyamin Bensalah

04.03.2018

The Tree

Like the green leaves on a winter-near tree,
We are – meant to be free.
Although, what we go through cannot be seen,
The tree frees us, despite being keen.

Just give me a new season, a month, another day,
These are our wishes: just a little May.
Maybe, there’s another May, named not the same,
Another tree with yearly reclaim.

But, even the pins seeming living and ever-green
Have their winter, their Augustine.
Living no lie, the tree frees us when it leaves us drawn,
Unwanted to see yellowish and brown.

Even the moments freeze when the winter is here,
With our look, we start to disappear.
Then, we’ll be freed from that beautiful tree’s lean,
By a falling leaf’s last scene nobody’s seen.

Then, what will say: that was us, that was our tree?
What will immortalize me?
The fallen leaves around me, on and under the ground?
Are my words freed too, or will be refound?

Benyamin Bensalah

04.10.2018