Dibyendu's WallScript

This land is not mine— citizenship denied, while the sacred selves of ancestors fade into profit and loss.   From the country of rivers far away, I stepped blind upon an unknown road, casting behind the fields of rice, the sleeping rivers, the grasses green.   Had I known it was my last departure, I would have turned once more— to see the torn, abandoned homeland, that shattered appendix of a nation.   Like Ekalavya, giving his master’s due, I wandered forth only to be defeated. And now, in foreign lands, time itself is strange: I cannot tell who is kin, and who is enemy.   Foreign rulers, foreign tongues, their customs I swallow like bitter bread. Here, half-dying, half-living, I have clung to the beam of survival, while others climb upon it too— faces salted by the taste of brine, bodies burning in the airless cities.   More and more they come, their footsteps storming the earth. Yet still this ground is not a home, it speaks in another voice, in another tongu...

She will come— as dawn comes to the weary night, as moonlight steals upon the restless sea. All unspoken words, that trembled in silence, shall find their breath in her arrival.   She will come— like rain upon the parched earth, like blossoms breaking through forgotten fields. The barren groves will sing again, the dust of sorrow will be washed, and the heart, long burdened, will rise in sudden light.   She will come— not with noise, but with a tender step, not as a stranger, but as the soul once lost. And I, who wait alone by the river’s edge, shall know her face in the hush of evening, for in every dream, in every broken silence, she has walked beside me.   Yes, she will come— as love comes, as destiny comes, as the long-awaited song returns to the lips of man.