Always unique, always stranger –
an uncurrent life-exchanger,
touching cultures, seeing masses –
always out of all social classes,
no girl, no boy; not in any gender –
not belonging to any sender,
always alone, or just uninvited –
unable to be united,
no land calls me, sky-surrounded –
always erring around unfounded,
not a city, not a name,
not a pity, not a shame,
not a colour, not a skin,
not an honour, not a sin,
always half this and halves that miss,
I am no one, only this.

Benyamin Bensalah


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


Make the country great again

We are the people of this land,
A nation that needs to be great again,
A leader we need who can lead us
To be great, great again.

We hold history and values,
They are flowing in the blood we share,
A leader we need who can teach us
Not just doing affair.

We are a nation with many faces,
They hold different shapes and colours,
We need a leader who’s one of us
Sharing the same dolours.

We are unique in the world,
But not unique in chaos and absurdities,
We need a leader dressing us
With new, proper qualities.

We are the country, we are the flag,
Without us there’s no power, no crowd,
We need a leader who can teach us
Again, how to be proud.

Benyamin Bensalah


Birthday Cough

Life always has a simple key;
If it’s not its harakat, then its hara-kiri…
I’ve just passed two decades and four years,
Living for two years in Algiers.
My life’s been a funny thriller;
Clinging to remain a caterpillar.

France for French and bass for dance;
I fully maintained my old stance.

The same faith that makes a moth nocturnal,
Made me write my grotesque journal.

Day and night through polyglotting;
I spoke weary words and hodgepodging.

My talk’s been strange as a stolen stone;
Mort satire arranged my lonely tone.

For that I’ve got beard and scrub,
I gotta be a philolover language bug.

More than twenty witty years of Earthism,
My fortune fooled the laws of Murphy’s.

Like coming from the blue, apathetic;
I’ve been walking on the gloom, my path is epic.

Overall my karma’s rather up than down,
For that, I’m thanking Allah until now.

Finally, To sum up my level up,
I clashed up twenty-four years in a cough.

Benyamin Bensalah



White while matt, are the mort of hatless flats,
Like dominoes, they are, set back by back,
One by one’s head, making a blanche headlessness,
Black spots do window on each head’s restless stare,
In the city of Algiers.

Its legs rest by the bright bight of the Mediterranean,
Making the city more than hybrid, demi-terranean,
In the sky and up to it, in the sea but swelled through it,
Making people to dwell – from far – in a white citadel,
In the city of Algiers.

But behind the white curtain and the blinding sea,
Moist bites are doing black and greenish feast;
The dead walls are no more dead-white anymore, but ruins,
At times, scaffolded by grey webs of an endless remorse,
In the city of Algiers.

From out, black veins pump stink into the white city,
Its sewers drink up the filthy, invisible ullage
While the fantom toxicity makes its people itchy;
Letting the itchy thoughts sitting on the road and at the walls,
In the city of Algiers.

Then, by the sun going down, black replaces the white,
Lamplight-formed, yellow baits wait for innocent souls
That might appease the toil of the white daylight
By feeding the hiding white-dressed imp under the toxicity,
In the city of Algiers.

Benyamin Bensalah


Ars Poetica: See Oversea

With the sense of Victor Hugo’s,
For France, I threw out my ages,
In a rat race, no less outrageous
Than the best rat alined in the rats’ rows.

‘No more ratty rivalry! I go!’ said I,
Making sail on the streams of origins,
Marching overseas into Algiers,
Fooling myself going ahead on a try.

I was with my own demons enclosed,
Not a single life-goal having exposed.
There a zephyr came being ma muse,
Teaching me the use of pen to amuse.

I could swim across five seas and an ocean,
Just to write a letter,
Plunging my pen into the sea of inspiration.

Benyamin Bensalah



Oh, hundred millions of son of Adam
Erring around the sands of time,
Tell me, whether you heard of the city: Thebeste,
The city that claims – merits my rhyme.

Now, the hundred gates of Thebes
Luxoriate his wife near to Tunis,
On the non-Egyptian land of talking stones,
Tebessa, the Algerian metropolis.

Lo! Gaius Cornelius had sung of Thevest,
Out of the Empire’s admiration
Since there’s no motherland bartered by seste’ri;
A muse that breaths divine inspiration.


All what the time has left testamentally,
The archs, pylons and attics,
Are no more than white stones of a sordid realm,
Hiding all the one-time wisdom’s and ethics.

Now, where is Minerva from the temple?,
The ruins made bed for Mani,
The centuries bartered the pillars of brightness
By ages of darkness; but by how many?

No! Where are the words of the epic poets,
Hanging – glaring on Solomon’s Walls,
Prophesying the coming preposterous epidemic
From what every civilization falls.


How could I make noise on a foreign podium
That is surveyed by no ear,
Why would I even raise my voice to the wretches;
Whom were numb when Caracalla was here.

Nay one hundred and more and one gates
Could make me to enter the city;
However, I’ve noticed my White Lotus there
That is the source of my felicity.

Lo! The sands of time blew me inspiration,
To learn the city and its ancient history
That feeds my mortal clay only with white stones,
But my spirit with an eternal flourishing story.

Benyamin Bensalah