Dibyendu's WallScript

  I have kept asking, endlessly, Can one truly be a friend? Subinoy said.   I turned aside, my gaze resting on grey fields— Will it rain today?   Beneath the tree’s root, shadows weave the play of clouds, a strange disorder, a pain.   The doors of suffering— they open by themselves. All my hidden fears, I kept them close. Living became harder that way.   In the western sky, tonight— hope drifts, with pride, without light, swaying on the cradle of dreams.   I remain with an unbroken body, surrounded by strange, terrible friends who only speak of pain.   Dreams burned in the fire of despair, and as they left, I wondered— can they ever return?   Subinoy said. With a clay cup of tea at his lips, his head leaned eastward.   At the end of endless roads, lonely hands hold lonely hands— two-faced beggars, wandering.   Sorrows open the window, leading the heart away, as if it were their vow.   I speak with trees, constantly, tirelessly, when...

Mid-monsoon fields of ripening green, beside them a dirty canal flows, unseen, black water tangled in weeds that gleam, bamboo scaffolds rise from the stream.   At dawn, in the hush of waking air, farmers lift bundles of golden grain fair, last year’s harvest piled high in decay, still holding what time could not sweep away.   By noon, with weary bodies sore, they return and lean on the courtyard floor. Muscles loosen, breathing slow, watching the sky where memories go.   Whispers of yesterday fill their eyes, children and elders gaze at the skies. Snakes without venom play in the weeds, life repeats in its simplest needs.   And there—on bamboo frame she bathes, her wet cloth clings, her body sways. Droplets fall, curve down her breast, muscles stir in secret unrest.   A patch of earth, still dry, grows wet, a mirror of sky in the water is set. Clouds of autumn, pale and kind, others dark, with fatigue entwined.   Stone by stone the edges rest, fields hold ...

After years, I drag the yellowed books off the shelf— they sit across from me, like an old rival, like a mirror.   I tell myself: let’s begin again, throw away the wisdoms gathered, they were only dust. Begin where error breathes.   I write: How are your ideals these days? Have they aged well, or do they sell themselves to the brokers of stability? You made a home with me, though the rumors say otherwise— your name drifts like gossip in the marketplace of half-truths.   The world spins, everyone invents their own version. Me too— sinking sky to underworld, piled with chores, head stuffed with mistakes like rotten fruit.   Still, I hunger only for two moments of intimacy, the primitive love of a clean heart. Most of life is coal— hard, black, burning. My meaning? I make sense of you by unmaking myself, finding your greatness in the fractures.   This solitary road— its stones endless, its griefs fossil-heavy— yet I trust you’ve never turned cruel.   Your word...

My tongue is exiled, far away from the tongue of your heart— banished to lonely islands, to silence.   At the dawn of my broken dreams weighed down with a day’s tired soul— no power left, no courage left, to stand strong by my own strength.   My heart is a scripture of darkness, a holy chariot with no hope, dragged through empty medieval streets, where children walk only on the road of death, bearing forever the burden of chains, dying with weak, wasted thoughts.   And you— your mountain civilization, your hardened body, your worker’s mind, your warrior’s victories from countless battles— they trample my tender dreams.   My heart turns to stone, watching your mastery of words.   My thoughts burn, melted into ash, scattered among the many. Drums of ancestors roll, bows sing sharp in the air.   We were meant to face again— my morning dreams against your mountain pride. ...