Dibyendu's WallScript

Along a narrow tunnel track, the foxes gather, circling back. A lone gazelle, with startled breath, runs toward the arms of death.   Jungle law in savage grace, civil order masks its face. Fangs and talons, dripping red, celebrate the feast they’re fed.   Then flashes blaze—the camera’s spark, a “Jurassic Park” remark. The painter traps with iron frame, the paper prints the hunter’s game. The poet scribbles lust’s design, in columns bold of daily line.   Interviewed, the victim speaks, a woman smiling, pale and weak. She whispers tales of rape and lies, the TV swallows all it buys. The crowd, with hunger in their gut, devours the tale of blood and rut.   Our princess, once, in whispers bare, confessed her love on midnight air. A jackal’s voice through telephone, left her weeping, quite alone. Next, the camera caught her kiss, a seaside moment, fleeting bliss. Her husband’s view the channels sought, while gossip feasted, sold and bought.   Another lover rang the ...

Upon the stalk of ripened grain, the cobra coils in silent pain— what torment, what unyielding chain, yet still, O still, there falls no rain.   My life is parched, a thirst untold, my spirit fading, faint and cold. Grant me a drop, love’s soft refrain, for still, O still, there falls no rain.   The flowerless tree, its barren crest, where birds of longing lift their quest. With upturned beaks they call in vain, and still, O still, there falls no rain.   By day, by night, in restless chase, I seek for joy, for love’s embrace. But tears unending, since birth remain, and still, O still, there falls no rain.   To hide my grief is deeper guile, it grows, it swells, it mocks the smile. O wash my shame, my soil, my stain— yet still, O still, there falls no rain.