Poem: ​O’ the village

​O’ the village

As a born village-boy,
An inner child is hiding in my brain’s alleys,
Running and playing inside the green memories.

From the chirping wheat fields till the fresh wood,
All around the vineyards, it’s my neighborhood.

The inner child ran up the mountain through the woods,
Bouncing over the stream without wearing his shoes.

The little kid played peekaboo in the bushes,
After that he threw mud using sticks as lashes.

Under the rosey cherry-trees, he projected the cherry core,
He ate cherry-honey against the troath made sore.

He waved “Good day!” to the neighbours and to their dogs,
As a reply they barked the “Yo dawg, wassup” songs.

The inner child had been breaking the casual,
Moving-running-jumping till he entered the grey capital.

The little inner kid remained like a corn grain in my brain,
In the nature, his rebirth comes with the first drop of the rain.

Then, as a little child I jump from puddle to puddle,
Singing and having shower under the houses’ gutter.

After the long grey years, everything is green again,
I feel myself like the little inner child inside the grey man.

I could not separate the world “home” from the “backyard”,
The countryside is calling me even if it’s thousands in yard.

I feel it’s my land on the way how I think, how I stand,
Rural is my youngest chivalry from my childhood legend.

I defeated scarecrows, gathered grapes for dole,
Prepared for winter after winter by planting in the digged hole.

My grandma bottled fruits while I plucked the chickens,
My best friends were yalping dogs and purring kittens.

My inner child is the ruler of my rural memories,
It makes me galopp over every woody alleys,
As a born village-boy.
Benyamin Bensalah


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