Dibyendu's WallScript

Within the swollen heart of civic pride, Rise brazen towers whose roots are sunk in clay Compacted from the nameless dead; beneath, They breathe no more, yet hold the weight entire, While Peace, in garments pale, attends the throne, Her tongue a mask, her hand in tyrant’s grasp.   Here murder walks in state; the brother’s hearth Is torn by petty feuds; the desert wind Brings vultures swarming over funeral biers; The mast is splintered, yet the mariner Binds rope to rope and braves the storm again. The stream runs red, the womb of life defiled; The flood of wrath and whispered treachery Bears on its tide the rusted swords of trust.   Man unto man becomes the sharpened blade, Our hands made weapons by our own design; The city cries of them and us, till all Are drawn within the same devouring snare. The boneyard rises where the temple stood, Its ashes cast at Sorrow’s naked feet; Yet pride still climbs the stair, and in his palm Clasps what he deems the sceptre of his right. ...

Far along the way it was evening— and at the turn of the road, eyes like the rain-bird’s longing gaze.   A woman in white, with an orange-bordered sari, stood at her doorway, sleep still upon her lashes, a quiet smile playing at her lips.   On one side, green fields; on the other, the city’s steel; on one flank a dinghy drifts on water, the traveller’s step falters— in the delayed joy of a tranquil face, the wave breaks through his weariness.   Ahead, an endless darkness, a net of unknown fate; a luckless boatman finds dry land in the whirlpool.   The traveller remembers home, the hearth, yet wanders in the maze of roads, haunted by memories left far behind.   In the hush of evening, in a forgotten spring, the woman comes to sit in the courtyard. Once, in the mind, there was a bird that tricked life in the dark.   The sky, a kohl-black blue— come, let us paint the sun; already the lamp is lit at the basil altar, its symbol of light journeying to the farthes...

Long ago, in the first warmth of sun, I left all my fair delights in the hollow, empty lanes of Gor Gobindpur; and thus I have no lament now.   The cast-off bin of memory is all that remains for me to ruminate— a pauper’s life in recollection. Those who were with me at dawn are no longer here; they once spoke to me of hope and of expectation, and I dwelt long among them, merciful in my heart.   I would repay their kindness in the weight of paddy or of rice, yet such is beyond my means— for the fields are barren.   The labour was there, and the body loved them, yet I did not suffer them to draw too near the precinct of my heart. Sometimes by error, or by the urging of a deep aversion, I hastened to the great road of departure.   No impulse of wrath remains, nor can hatred dwell in me. Those who once lifted the hand of affliction, who turned their backs— in loving them I lost my way again and again in the middle of the road.   Each moment was loud with the insult ...

Conscience, blind, sat quietly beside sin. In the blue sky, a shroud of cloud— lust flared like a low-born flame.   When life slipped from truth, inside the snake’s shed skin death lay bewildered— the body’s form still powerful, but those who should cross over will never reach the other side.   Will no one speak for another’s sake? The coins for passage— each clutched to its own chest.   When you try to name the lamp of the sky, the demon comes down with lightning speed.   Better sadness than off-key monsoon tears, or the false joy that burns the earth at the borders of entitlement.   Everyday swimmers drown in nets of numb indulgence. All know death will come; ahead, only desert— yet where to go?   I prefer to stay close to the earth, to live in the mud. This is my sin— this is where I am.   Is it the curse of the primal age or the culture of civilization? The killer will not smear blood and salt upon his own skin.   On endless empty roads walk b...