Hand in hand dreamwalking in insomnia

The poorest person’s the one who can’t dream,
but the poor are also the most creative;
I’ve just created a dream around her,
visiting her in her dream,
telling her the truths
that an awake

It was the most beautiful dream I’ve never had,
since it lived on our sometime memories;
when I had had someone caring,
and having been imagining
that she’s still here,
here to hear.

Benyamin Bensalah


Evening pictures

Dark urban quarter,
Been beehive in elder
days, now valleys.

I’m wandering wondering
Why others are waiting living,
I’m just fine.

Betwixt silent walls,
I’m running from wars,
Like a rabid rabbit.

Time is spending elsewhere,
But shatters the dark shelter-
By a song of bing-bong.

I must sense midnight,
Deeply asleep every light,
But mine is deeper.

I walk like a thief
with a perfect relief,
To be hidden.

Wearing a mask is wrong;
While the darkness I belong,
No mascarade.

By evil omens covered,
But no man got bothered,
In any side.

Being is a game of dice,
Here, guaranteed no nice
For you, nor for me.

I’m feel near the void;
Whether I should avoid
it, that I merit.

Where nobody walks,
There’s the Death; stalks
For my soul.

Perhaps, now, finally,
I undress the ever boundary,
Between me and the world.

I’d offer my soul,
The soul of ghoul,
But not today.

We’ve just started living,
Lights flare away the evening;
End of my day.

Benyamin Bensalah


Translated from my Hungarian poem, “Kis esti képek” (2009).

Gargoyle hence

On a vicious night at a dark moment,
the castle was dim as a forsaken castle was meant –
on a scarlet night at a sharp moment,
the midnight hanged the bell for a horrid event:

No living souls could lurk upon such ghouls
that appeared to live as the bells rang –
horrible silence followed the wake of the hollows
when the gargoyles started to dance :

Petrified demons who followed no reasons,
only to crush the fear through the lungs;
they answered no seasons, but the bell’s grievance
calling upon a soul’s last song;

As the midnight was screaming – the only hearing,
and there could be no moving caught,
in earnest, no living eyes could be able at seeing
gargoyles mischieving at such a terrible sort:

No movement at seeing, but a terrible feeling,
sweeping the eyes around them –
while they just kept dancing and stealing
parts from the soul – never retrieving…

til, you become one of them in that eternal dark moment.

Benyamin Bensalah



I’m rarely dreaming.
Waking from a rarely dreaming,
I’m always screaming.
Only in my head, without a single sound,
But it’s still far too loud.

Realities are deceiving.
I’m never sure of when I’m dreaming;
I’m always waiting for awaking.
The thoughts and doubts form a crowd;
I cannot look around.

I’m barely sleeping.
I’m afraid I will wake up in the evening,
And it’s still the evening.
Being alone, in the deep night drowned,
Dreams or deeds astound.

It’s a funny feeling.
The morning should be relieving,
Even if it’s without meaning.
At least, I could be sure of the ground,
Not just being without a bound.

Am I dreaming?
I have no landmarks steering;
I might be sleeping.
Dream in a dream in a dream sowed;
In a mind that may be underground.

Benyamin Bensalah


The Mirror of Darkness

Tonight is not a particular night;
This is a night among the nights:

I woke up in the middle of darkness,
Not knowing what to do with my own darkness;
So, I lit up a cigarette and faced the mirror:
There was only darkness in the mirror,
And a half face blazing up time to time –
Sometimes, we just want something to happen, it was a time.

I was thinking of summoning Bloody Mary;
I hoped for a ghost girl appearing behind me –
Something that signs me that I’m not alone.
But, the only monster closest around me
Was me, nothing, just me alone.
No ghosts, no robbers, no Bloody Maries.

It was not new to me that monsters were not real,
But it’s always surprising that I am –
Finding myself always as my own Boogeyman.
We’re in need of Satans, devils and evil polititans
To avoid facing the mirror of darkness;
That reveals only us and us again.

These are dangerous thoughts,
Knowing about the darkness in the man;
Because we’ll see Satans, devils and evil polititans
In us, and so as in every man.
Once seen, there will be no more hiding;
We will meet darkness again and again and again.

Benyamin Bensalah



Moonborn who’s dead in daylight
Screamed, for no reply despite.
C’mon! Who would reply someone
Whose words are just pun
Of someone.

Indeed it’s a little bit child-like,
But the moonlight is what I like.
The darkness is my only friend,
I need no one other to pretend,
A friend.

Like a modernized vampire, he flees
From the daylight promenades.
Though he bears it, but doesn’t love,
Rather he would choose a cove,
No one.

He is escaping day to day,
Chasing the night only to say:
Moonlight! Why I was born?
As a living, why I must mourn,
My self.

Moonborn who’s dead in daylight
Screamed, for no reply despite.
C’mon! Who would reply someone
Whose words are just pun
Of someone.

Benyamin Bensalah


Translated from my Hungarian poem, “Hold szülötte” (2009).

A song at night

The moon is burning on the tip of my tongue,
My fingers are numb from the vacuum of the dark blue sky,
I try to cover my ears from the sorrowful sirens’ song
That pulsates cramp into my chest, back and shin and the thigh.

A song that’s fairly sweet to make believe the ear and the mind,
The mouth has no choice on chewing either salt or cyanide;
Awkward dark bogy’s all the pureness herearound found,
Whispers are the thoughts weaved by devils all behind.

Silence is the chips of glass on the throat of the nightly sky,
It repeats the sirens’ and demons’ song creaking,
I listen, then my half-living eyes give me a cry
As of the last things before the dawn’s bleeding.

Benyamin Bensalah