Dibyendu's WallScript

Far off, pulling away, fading slow, taking back and taking back again from the very start of life— like every day— the pain is already inside you.   It stays. The earth is endless. All the other lives? Don’t matter much.   I think of friends— they carry more pain than me. But that doesn’t help. Their pain isn’t mine, and mine isn’t theirs. So no matter how big the pain outside, it isn’t the weight that counts.   A tree has sprouted on my forehead. It grows inward— roots are veins, nerves are branches, thoughts are tangled leaves.   Today’s shade is from that tree. Its blood is orange, its pomegranate is fire. It speaks inside my body— “Come closer… you hear me?”   No one’s calling to take me away. Modern folk, like they can’t go forward at all. The moving sorrow stays hidden, the net still tightening around the heart.   Give the dream a little love for tomorrow— be it fame or justice— press your hand to your chest, you’ll feel the hurt.   A time will s...

All round thee spreads an unseen boundless sphere; Who dares o’ertake thee, who may draw thee near? To spurn thy name, to fill the page with rhyme, And, buying metre, boast of heights sublime— Such mortal bards, though proud in measured lore, Shall sink, o’ermatched, within thy boundless shore.   A drop of water, in thy tongue devised, Loses its cadence, lost, unrecognised; In thine own tide of thought and glad excess, All other voices fade to nothingness.   So great the blaze of thine unwearied light, That talent’s fire, and genius’ burdened might, Like billows on the shore, their clamour spend, And in thy form celestial image blend.   Thou art a traffic of immortal days, Wherein thy lasting fame each market sways; And lesser poets, wan with hopeless plight, Do find their orbits shattered in thy light.   For thou art space itself; with moral pride Thy giant shadow falls on every side; The small are smitten in their fragile way, Their constellations quenched in dark ...

The seed of a goal is planted in our hearts. Across leagues of a sea of sorrow, the sky arrives. Pilgrims return home and, with wonder, see that nothing in the world has changed.   The urge to seek and to embrace is so intense that if one has knowledge and desire, life feels complete. But the quests scatter— the road turns to stone, and the unlucky walk on hard ground.   Their muscles slowly grow stronger; their strength gives them the illusion of peace. No one will keep a place for normality in the innermost chambers of the mind, for they have seen each person is different, and must walk through a path filled with thorns.   They know life’s worth can be bought only with sweat and blood. On this fragile, perilous road, in the shade of trees, time moves forward unnoticed. In an unknown land, their home lies behind them.   Mountains rise sideways, astonishing all; in the rainbow sky, vultures tumble, searching for prey between afternoon and evening. Water rushes over s...