Dibyendu's WallScript

Pain at times in pleasure’s stream, Seeks itself in another’s dream. Through nights of grief and days of woe, The trembling heart still longs to know.   At life’s dark end, temptations call, They weave their shadows over all. Yet in the weak, the tyrant reigns, While burning minds bear brighter flames.   Though hearts are scorched and turned to dust, They glow with light, because they must. Like moths that circle fire’s embrace, They find in death a fleeting grace.   In moments brief, despair may rise, The homeless soul with aimless eyes. Yet eastward sings a purer song, That lifts the spirit, leads it on.   I break the fragile halls of dream, To chase the sea’s unending gleam. The jar of sorrow brims with pain, But surely life shall bloom again.   One day a hand shall beckon near, A voice of love the heart shall hear. And time will pass, yet hearts shall start, To fall once more, in love’s new art.

Through sleepless nights my dreams take flight, With you, their flame still burns so bright. All gold I pledged to your closed chest, Where longing hides and finds no rest.   The body craves, the spirit yearns, Yet distance guards what closeness burns. For if you near, the dream would fall, The memory fade, the bond enthrall.   Better to lose than close at hand, To keep the past, a shining land. To drift in future’s woven snare, Than break the spell we cannot bear.   Yet losing you, my heart’s not free, Its captive chains still dwell with thee. Forever bound, though far apart, My sorrowed soul, my conquered heart.

Seeking the meaning of life’s fearless complexities, if blood should rise in a throat of blue, if a hesitant mind, bound by the limits of experience, surrenders in battle— then yield the world’s essence at the highest rate of interest, pay dearly into the treasury of life.   See how the splendid hour wastes away, fades into dishonor, dissolves into nothingness— and from each one, take it far away, make of it the offering of solitude, numbered among the neglected, the impoverished of heart.   If life be accepted as a war, then in every defeat, in every futility, when dazzlement of modern society turns away, the vanquished in silence shall stand victorious.   Would it not be better, instead of drowning some innocent soul in the isolation of thought, to let oneself be drowned in the party of the defeated, or in the revolutionless, self-absorbed void?   All falsehood, all arrogance shall be stripped, and solitude shall render you selfless; yet in drinking the poison of h...