Dibyendu's WallScript

They led him far along the starlit road, where constellations walked the horizon’s edge, and for ages untold had watched, silent custodians of the night.   He had prepared himself— a face forever lit with joy, knowing that nothing was dearer than the knowing itself. Pride lifted like a banner in the wind, awake beyond the waking, drawing wisdom from the hollow air, digging into hard earth with bare nails, finding water in a barren land by no machine, only the old miraculous will.   This strange man had walked half the turning world on foot; the costliest treasures rose above all price, and the fear of death was a heavier thing than the fear of men— and that, too, he had mastered. Perhaps something would be, perhaps not— he stood unshaken either way, granting existence no more weight than the shadows it cast.   In the heritage of the unflinching, he conquered pain; in darkness, only the keen seal of recognition was his light. He had looked upon a thousand years of history ...

The day all debts are paid, no one will find the old account book. What was owed in life’s trade will be seized by the fever.   The interest still unpaid— in that kingdom without accounts, no one knows what remains, no one keeps the ledger of man’s debt to man.   It lasts till the very end. What began at the start will close at the close— its own grim mantra.   Debt is a heavy load, hard to carry on the road. You must walk it without flesh, buy death one day with a coin.   He who understands this weight knows the ghost-labour it costs— to work from start to finish for nothing, to balance the sums at last and find them still unbalanced.   Then you will know— not a mill’s blind ox, but a body that turned a few slow circles on the gallows beam.  

  Been thinking all day, comrade — maybe I should ask: on the riverbank of war-blood, in the hush after murder, in the stiff-necked duty of fear— is silence the only good now? Truth — almost an uninvited guest, better left outside the door.   Let society carry that corpse, while we breathe easy. The judge — maybe he’s still capable of neutrality, scraping one honest shell from mud-smeared water. What lawyer ever refused the pearl when it gleamed like hunger?   And then — night or noon, in streets or rooms, in the crowd or alone — death arrives, so does killing, like a draft through the skin. Questions rot on paper, no one dares read the fine print. It’s all a ghost’s play now — daily death-games under our wide-open eyes.   Not assassins, comrade — ghosts. Social rot in rags of power. No chocolates fall from the sky, no syrupy rasgullas— only bullets, bombs, the raped girl dumped back on the railway track.   In gambling dens blood rises like drunken bets. Neon ci...

Light the fire—   in that flame I will burn to death.   As the ant, winged, loves to die—   so do I.