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
