It’s pouring, lashing.
Looking out of the window, I say:
What a mercy of God it is:
All the orange, all the beans!
The soil is thirsty.

However I put up my shoes,
Jumping over puddle and puddle,
Running on my pitch in the mud,
Then, walking in hurry on the road.
The houses, the roofs are crying,
They make little rivers and waterfalls.

The men of the road blow cloud,
It’s the sign of the cold,
Though, the women are in tight dress,
Robes and high-heels on some,
They make funny the foggy scene,
By acting so contradictory.

Men are like watered cats,
Throwing their legs up the sky,
Making puffs of vapour in hurry;
While women, like heavy machines,
They stop longly before each water,
And hesitate like steamboats.

However, the crowd is one,
One nation of colorful umbrellas,
That awkwardly clash time to time,
But they move along together.
I hold none of their colour,
I’m just watching eyes.

I witness the rain,
With my whole body,
With the holes of my shoes;
Cold neck and frozen toes:
Though, I keep saying:
What a mercy of God rain it is!

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


The Violin

The Violin
was amongst
my first inspirations
as a child
gifted by poetry,
instead of
The childish poem sounded somewhat
like these lines, but in my mother tongue:
(Even if poetry
is a language itself.)
“My heart is like a violin with its cords;
When I’m easy on them, it plays kindly,”
(Nice metaphor;
wasn’t I a smart kid?)
“But when I force on it, it cries up and breaks,
Leaving every heart in a broken silence.”
(Oh, woow,
that’s the ol’ me.)
This is the poem on which I got the warning:
“Sane kids don’t write such gibberish larking!”.
That was harming,
but the world
harmed me more
than such words;
so, I didn’t stop
writing because of a
badly criticized
poem, named:
The Violin.
However, I felt
weird towards
that instrument
from then.
I watched weirdly
the rich kids
playing on them freely;
without nobody
telling to them:
You are insane
Doing what you do,
that rubbish larking.
That was hard to understand that time
why one’s art was seen crazy, and other’s playing was genius.
But after some materialistically and socially hitting slaps on my face,
I understood how it is exactly working with this terrible human race:
The rich that follows and serves the example of enjoying being
will be never replaced by the deep thinker wrapped up in grieving.
Realizing it was sad, but truth is enlightening.
This is why I returned to this magical instrument, now,
with its amazing sounds that leave my heart happily crying.
Just a decade and some years before, I was comparing my heart to those cords
that can make such a beauty the Earth is barely able to hold, within such a sadness,
within such a chance to fail and ruin everything, leaving rooms in heart-torn silence.
This divine instruments must not be played but by the devil
who knows what is true sin, and how gets fallen a daredevil.
Let the devil take the cords, let him take my heart with them, too.
I’ve needed no more than to truly know what is hiding in
this world and this heart that makes me love
a sad and gloomy while also pompous
violin playing.

Benyamin Bensalah



Merry jingling
What’s the time?
I must be doing the same crime;
Washing colourful faces with white time-
The result is a timelapse mayhem with a rhyme.
Merry jingling, a sheep is bleating, then it cries
Crimson red hues are spreading over the snowy house;
Why this clueless slaughter? What’s the matter what’s the time?
Is this a gift on the ground? Is it blood under the tree all around?
Is it mine?
Is it mine?
Is it mine?
Living in the past. Poet. Present pains. Feel. But never reveal. Home. Alone.

Benyamin Bensalah