Is a curse –
The course of pathos –
To unsense the nonsense,
At first, your heart must be locked.

Call a locksmith, or become yourself,
Tho’ one lock won’t fix the life –
The ever strife of study –
To escape the legging,
Another locking.

You can never hide,
Your pocket cries out –
Not the tailor is the traitor –
To silence your empty stomach,
Again, your heart ought to lock up.

The ever hardship being a human,
Defenselessly desires the love –
The ever blazing consuming –
To unblind the avid eyes,
The fourth lock hies.

The locks sacrifice,
For the sacred conscience –
The ironed et rusting heart –
To fend the sober brain’s cogs,
Lock the heart and even the locks.

Benyamin Bensalah


The heartless regime

Once upon a time, there’s been,
In the animal world;
A heartless king, named Lionard,
Who must own all last words.

King Lionard – king of the forest,
Was well-well known woodwide;
From his strong determinations,
No animal could hide.

Be the snake under the bushes,
Be the dog on the yard;
Be any animal near the forest,
None could ‘scape Lionard.


B’ing rather fear’d than respected:
His words couldn’t be muted;
Woe is the poor one failing them,
For b’ing executed.

King Lionard had no mercy,
It was ever well-known;
Woe is the poor underling – who,
For last, might see his crown.

In a clumsy day, it happened:
Lord Wulf was called to see;
“I am starving, bring me to eat,
Or else, I will eat thee.”


Wulf – the Lord Chancellor was mad,
Madly running for a loan;
Tho, the council had one counsel:
“Thou are on thy own.”

Wulf in despair combed the forest,
If he could find a prey;
That time, he met Oxie – the bull,
Wulf aimed him with a pray:

“Oh, Oxie! You look dead uneased,
But I have solution;
Yor weight may kill you today -but,
I have magic potion.”


Oxie – the bull, followed Wulf’s lead,
“My friend may melt your lard!”
From a wood to a wood, walking,
Till they faced Lionard!

The famished king jumped up quickly,
Making escape the bull;
“Oh, king! Why you’ve done that?” Said Wulf,
Running after the bull.

Wulf reached Oxie, praying again:
“Stop! You’ll miss yor massage!”
“Wasn’t he to kill me?” asked the bull,
“Nah! You’ll see it’s massage!”


King Lionard devoured the half,
Then, said: “I need to drink-
You will be surveying my meat.”
Then, left him a blink.

Wulf – b’ing hungry itself – must move:
After a quick looking,
He ate up the heart of the bull,
When arrived the fooled king:

“You ate my part, the heart! You’ll die!”
Scream’d the king. “No, Highness! –
In fact that the bull came back, No!
No! It must be heartless!”

Benyamin Bensalah


The personal impersonal

Cold I am as the warmth of the Tundra;
Yet, my true warmth is your celestial aurora.

My heart may fulfill a land with corpses;
It has just enough empathy;
Tho, my spirit rides on flying horses
Since XP is my only therapy.

Thirst is indeed rapturing;
The knowledgeable’s books, poems and words;
They all serve us nourishing,
Feeding our grey and dark matters with worlds.

Indeed, the world seems first illusory;
Exceptions against our principles;
Tho, we must swim only our story,
With or without flippers.

As good writers say;
Just give me a pen and a piece of paper;
I got you on a happy day,
Be ready to perfect all my prayer.

I’ve seen too much, my heart is weaken’d;
Happiness is emerged with dark;
Tho, these words are already hearkened,
God’s given me you instead of heart.

I feel coldness, but you dress warm the Tundra;
Sith, my warmth is your celestial aurora.

Benyamin Bensalah


Mourn on the Heart of Roux Meow

Now, I came back to the old grave of my heart-
Oh, how long it has been buried away!
Now, I just risked to revive again that heart:
That cost my senses astray.

What could hold the burden of all my years,
Even the hope of death is dim-
No mate listens, no mat has ears:
This is the world versus him.

It died of burying his living mother-father,
His first loves as a hope for happiness-
Then, it calls his conscience to sit together:
Ever remember the hurt of loneliness.

Visiting the dead calls to become one of them,
My deathwishing head follows the heart-
Why didn’t they listen: Don’t go back to Bethlehem:
The end is siamese with the start.

Now, a senseless person’s sitting at the tomb,
His madness wishes to be together-
Heartless, bloomless; only the gloom:
I wish to kill all worldy pleasure.

Whether his mouth is moving or not,
His heart and mind are dead, tho-
Both get goosebumps by an echoing thought:
“I was never meant to hurt you.”

Benyamin Bensalah