The cast has been diced

The destiny – whether one’s ready to
die on it or die for it –
has never been else than a given decision,
been our ever nature to screen it,
cast it, and act on it until we own our last deadend reality.

(The die has been cast. – Julius Caesar)

Benyamin Bensalah


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



Oh, hundred millions of son of Adam
Erring around the sands of time,
Tell me, whether you heard of the city: Thebeste,
The city that claims – merits my rhyme.

Now, the hundred gates of Thebes
Luxoriate his wife near to Tunis,
On the non-Egyptian land of talking stones,
Tebessa, the Algerian metropolis.

Lo! Gaius Cornelius had sung of Thevest,
Out of the Empire’s admiration
Since there’s no motherland bartered by seste’ri;
A muse that breaths divine inspiration.


All what the time has left testamentally,
The archs, pylons and attics,
Are no more than white stones of a sordid realm,
Hiding all the one-time wisdom’s and ethics.

Now, where is Minerva from the temple?,
The ruins made bed for Mani,
The centuries bartered the pillars of brightness
By ages of darkness; but by how many?

No! Where are the words of the epic poets,
Hanging – glaring on Solomon’s Walls,
Prophesying the coming preposterous epidemic
From what every civilization falls.


How could I make noise on a foreign podium
That is surveyed by no ear,
Why would I even raise my voice to the wretches;
Whom were numb when Caracalla was here.

Nay one hundred and more and one gates
Could make me to enter the city;
However, I’ve noticed my White Lotus there
That is the source of my felicity.

Lo! The sands of time blew me inspiration,
To learn the city and its ancient history
That feeds my mortal clay only with white stones,
But my spirit with an eternal flourishing story.

Benyamin Bensalah