Satyric Love

Once upon… it was said by a fairy tale,
There lived a boy who had a hairy tail.
It wasn’t at all a misbecoming feature,
Only he was a lil woodland creature.

He was a lil faun, living among men,
Doubtlessly, he differed from them.
With a pail face and brown hairy chest,
His smiling eyes owned berryness.

Our nameless satyr was always jolly,
Was always thinking of some folly.
He was always jingling stupid riddles,
But he was alone with his giggles.

“Who doesn’t like the lilly-little,
Will never deserve any bibi-bigger.
I used to like my little hooves,
Why my butt deserves the boots?”

Being the little victim of our yarn,
He spent his whole life around the barn.
He was the famous hero of the hay,
Everyone giggled seeing his own ballet.

His whole life went to a disaster,
Due to the daughter of his master.
The noble princess played a role,
Playing with the poor creature’s soul.

She, without her father’s knowing,
Visited the faun as they were growing.
Scarcely was her reason intimate,
Whereas, she had been his only mate.

The folly faun had none to follow,
Only the girl been mean and hollow.
The whole court knew their secret,
That the mistress had a hairy pigglet.

Once, in the highlight of the noble mass,
The faunny guy made a confess.
He aimed the king of the great palace:
“Oh crowny daddy and other fellas..”

“I am serious for the first time;
My heart hurts as a wound from the lime.
I have found the mate of my life,
The faith has written you as my wife!”

The poor fellow aimed the girl with a rose,
From the mass a huge laugther arose.
“Don’t be so mad, dear daddy of the crown,
Your daughter will make happy this faun.”

The mass kept joking on this scene,
And the royal members’ silent scream.
“Don’t be so shocked, noble castle,
The palace will be stabled by this cattle.”

Here, the guards caught the creature,
With sharp words on his feature.
The king angrily ordered to exile for that,
But the princess cried for his death.

Since the sun was already going down,
They sent him to the prison of the town.
Tomorrow will surely bring a solution,
Even if it’s the poor creature’s execution.

Is this the unhappy end of our riddle,
An execution under a sad song of a fiddle?
Or maybe the prison hid another page,
Like a magical transformation of a mage?

Our satyr could turn into a prince,
Marrying the girl, being happy ever since.
Or he could escape from the cells,
Finding joy in drinks, drugs and belles.

But he only wanted to wait the morrow,
By the guillotine ceasing his sorrow.
The only thought he had, he had to die,
Then, he saw a lonely butterfly.

A joyful song was sung by the moth;
However, it had not even mouth:
“You are a noble satyr, not a stranger,
Your home and love is the nature.”

By the words, our hero woke up: “Yay!”
“I won’t be her husband, nor fiancé!
I am a free faun who needs no brides!”
And the man ran into the wilds…

The wedding guests – without being rude –
Asked: “why the groom ran away nude?”
“Why he is flirting with every single tree,
Answering nature’s call while we see…”

He was singing a stupid song, having fun:
“I will be only the nature’s funny fan,
No more problems of marrying my love,
When my beloved is merely a dove!”

Benyamin Bensalah

20.09.2016

A Sacred Century Story

Seven savage centurions,
Swearing in their saint union’s
Scoured, scouted for sacredness,
Spreading but mere senselessness.

Seven souls sorted by Ceasar
Soullessly scorched the soil spare,
Sending to scourge not just its cereal,
But with seven skint scullions seen there.

In the circling flame’s stake,
Seeing no but smoke and flame,
Seeing no scape to suddenly recoil,
Sadly screamed the servants of the soil.

So, been so scared, suffocating,
Scarcely sober and scarcely seeing,
Thinking their souls cease on that soil,
They started a pray as a last toil on that soil.

Saying sour words to their gods,
But none seemed to soothe the odds,
No Ceres, Venus and no sound from Zeus,
Scullions suffer godless, they had to deduce.

Six scullions snared by scare,
But a single turned scare to dare,
Sending his sidekicks into fire graves,
Instinctively building a bridge of slaves.

Then, the savage scullion
Before being seen by any centurion,
Stabbed their posteriors from one to six,
Til the seventh slaughtered him for his sins.

Benyamin Bensalah

22.11.2018

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

28.09.2017

The Beggar

In the grey fogs of the cities –
Like mushrooms in the moist,
There grow beggars in the corners,
“Just a penny, sir!” – voiced.

You may find them in any genre;
Old men next to a jar,
Sad blokes without roof nor goods,
Lads playing a guitar.

All they want is only a coin-
Giving them needs morals;
Only God knows, you may be there,
Begging with them for alms.

                       —

Every time, I bypass by one,
My throat knots in a ball;
I feel an urge to seek coppers,
Always giving them all.

However, once it happened that-
I ran out of changes,
When an old gypsy woman was
Looking for my wages.

She blocked the entry of the shop:
“A coin, may God bless you!”;
I excused: Now, I’m short of posh
While trying to get through.

                       —

She grabbed my arm and hugged my waist:
“My dear, my kids need food!”
Get out of my way, you witch! – thought,
“Witch?! You’ll pay for b’ing rude!”

I was shocked: What, she read my mind?!
She spat between my eyes,
Hugged me harder than a python-
While murmuring weird rhymes.

“Pale face – hard heart, now you will pay,
Pale heart – hard face, you’ll own!”
I fear’d if there were watching crowds,
But none, I’ve seen none, none.

                       —

The witch’s gone as if never been,
Leaving my eyes in pain;
Taking my sight away, to say:
Oh my God! Am I sane?!

No doctor could cure my blindness:
“Nah, you must pretend it.”
Then, a charlatan informed me:
“You’re cursed, I’m sure of it”.

Knowing being cursed let me sick;
“You’ll need her to be cleansed”,
But how to find her in Paris?
Been blinded and uneased.

                       —

I digged through the darkest quarters,
Meeting gypsy kings and hags;
Though, they were all laughing at me:
“A witch-beldam who begs?!”

My dispair led me to the shop:
Maybe, I’ll find her here;
Time has strained my face and my heart,
Begging there year to year.

“All I want is only a coin-
Giving me needs morals;
Only God knows, you may be here,
Begging with me for alms.”

Benyamin Bensalah

Published in Constantine the Bridge Poem Collection.

Written in 2017, Oktober 11, Algeria.