Life is a locomotive:
Only passenger you are.
Aren’t you pulled through all the bad?
Haven’t you left behind all what’s said?
You want to get through London without rain?
If you are to learn from life, you have to train.

Life isn’t a local motive:
Human, not a tree you are.
It’s motion, adopt and act; you are apt.
Turn a page and take the stage, opt or adapt.
Lift yourself up; you are not tied but in your brain.
Do you think one is coming to pull you up with a crane?

Life is a LOCO motive:
If you are sane, insane you are.
Who told you that life is to understand?
Act the fool, the king and the queen; it’s your land.
The whole global globe is in your hands to use at ease.
After your time is over, you’ll have no excuse, nor reprise.

Benyamin Bensalah


The Curse of Time

Woe on the time which is resting under the ground –
Been its graveyard tomb or sepulchar mound,
Been its object eulogy, or been ne’er mourned,
Been mouldered, or b’ing in a funeral morgue;
Woe on them, woe!

Woe on the time and its living framework –
Being the languid killing of a suicidal slice of time,
Being the laborious ploy of mine or thine,
Being any masque of pure waste of time;
Woe on them, woe!

Woe on the larval chances of the upcoming –
Bēon the unseen turn of a living second,
Bēon the unbirth non-living dead moments,
Bēon any biased prophecy of temporal or beyond;
Woe on them, woe on them all!

Benyamin Bensalah


By Carpe Diem

By the corner of the pub,
By the shoes and on them the dust,
By the cup of tea and the fag of cigar,
I am Ceasar wihout owning a single dinar.

By the road I left now and then,
By the battles I failed as a young veteran,
By the failed strategies popped out of my mind,
I am bearing no tragedies above me, nor behind.

By all the knowledge acknowledged,
By all the ever refreshing rusty storage,
By the unknown mistery that I am living in,
I am not guilty of any by the misery made-up sin.

By the gods and things others adore,
By the long beards and women’s chadors,
By the lies about the never ending tomorrow,
I am not to believe but in today, even if it’s full of sorrow.

By the words leaving my meanders,
By those words reaching only others’ ears,
By all the pictures of tomorrow ending as a dream,
I am here to live but the today, by sayin at last: Carpe Diem.

Benyamin Bensalah



Dressed in the colours of void and in what everything been created,
Before the time true atoms could form,
I was there, wholesomely empty and perfectly isolated.

Problems had started with that prismatic nuclear storm
That in fusing colours sent my peace to fission,
Oh, of that galactic war’s physical-chemical reform.

Galactic years ahead falling stars became matter of superstition,
Feral protons and electrons made up a federal,
Referring my presence as a massive juxtaposition.

I’ve been asking and asking since that funless atomic funeral
That I could call as my very first nuclear decay,
Why my nature’d been unclearly declared as neutral.

The problem is more problematic than a highly charged cosmic ray
Coming, for me, meant as being decreased to a segment
Of a ghastly, unwanted, neither-this-nor-that dark social alley.

A nuclear interaction, keeping me needed as an unneeded content
Only to hold the candle for an atom
Of fundamental participles, states me as only a supplement.

Only, though I’m still an I’m-okay element in need of a positivite proton
To charge my dark emptiness,
Being less and too weak to be my own photon.

Atoms come and go, and nuclear reactions are merciless
As new groups get me negated,
Day to day I feel my charge less and less.

I’m a subatomic hero zero that goes with nothing, but the flow related,
Sometimes overrated or out of the norm,
But this is my neutral nature how I was created.

Benyamin Bensalah



I felt unfelt;
My world’s unheard.
That embraced, beset me.

Stoical flow the life is;
A shoreless sea.
Water is water;
Be wavery or plane.

Why plaint,
On the surrounding sea?
Why plaint again,
If only desert is seen?

Time is a river.
Dip, sip, hit the water;
You are fooled.

Life is a diabolic vortex;
Amazing mazes.
Tunes are to seduce you,
A superfluous being.

If you hesitate,
Then you are near to cry.
If you make water,
The water turns into cry.

The life is stoic;
It unfeels, uncries.
I am Stoïc,
Unfelt, but not cried.

Benyamin Bensalah