Dibyendu's WallScript

Will the galaxy remain after death?   The morning’s blue Aparajita has withered at the feet of the Nilkantha, crumpled like paper.   Will any cry remain in the shapeless air?   The bleat of a young goat blends into the market’s noise, ears dulled by habit.   The day will come to break the wall of obstacles.   From the city truck white smoke billows, mosquito eggs quiver.   What does it matter if ants are slaughtered under careless feet?   Street dogs cry— stones are thrown, civilization taught in every word.   The earth’s familiar climate fits human comfort; with smiles and pleasures we forget flesh and blood.   In the world, age grows; then comes the limp life, gas, acidity, heartburn, high blood pressure, diabetes.   No one ever told me to bear the pain of another kind— immortality’s taste burns away daily.   As easily as nature was returned to nothing, so too will disobedient fates arrive at the doorstep, taking us to the land of...

The window slot—open, shut— holds a sparrow, frozen mid-flight, its wings caught in the machinery of motion.   Those who are caged— who wrote their fate? What devil’s script, what trick of destiny painted spring in blood, hardened the paddy fields?   Chains must be broken— the wind is wild with strength. Let it remain, even in the blink of sightless eyes.   A splash of water soaks the feathers. Tell your conscience— I will not lose the map to you.   However strong the gears of the machine, I will find the old mark again. Wherever you are, whatever tears you shed, I will cross that narrow bridge with you.   They want me— they want you too. Civilization demands human sacrifice, but the bird still wants to fly.   In this locked prison of Kansa, Vasudeva weeps. The barrier is broken for the sake of human nature, yet blood and mud cry all around.   My gaze slips past it, to the delta of freedom— far away, beyond the narrow slot, the bird flies out, leaving ...

I will love you as my own, I will love you if I find you alone. Why keep me far? Draw me close— I can drift, longing, through seas of blood, through wars, carrying the dead far away, through mire, tears, and sweat, through life itself, barefoot over barbed wire toward the city of civilization.   I can paint with dreams until my eyes are full— even in heaps of rotting waste I can kneel in devotion, in deep worship of the Divine, seeking the path of justice, my chest swelling with pride.   In the stillness, in solitude, love grows; wrinkles deepen with age, and the pain of parting fades, slowly, slowly.   You can give love— love even in my death-pain, when my eyes hold a bloodless fear and evening falls in the month of Shravan. In my destitute chest, reverence rises.   In the storm-stream of Kalboishakhi, rain-wet women call— my skin thrills with awareness. Who comes, who takes me? Whose am I?   I seek the doorway in the worm-eaten door of a householder’s wall; th...