Dibyendu's WallScript

Corrode my conscience, O Lord— let my throat spit only scorn. Wrap me in armor of rage, teach me to face myself bare, never to turn back from the path of truth.   No shame, no fear— only the rag pressed hard against a face of fury, only survival in anger, waiting for the moment.   Calm as a kite on the terrace, in wrath, in rebellion, I will one day unfurl my wings, strike at the monuments of lies, tear away their pale blessing— thirsting only, for revenge.

Impoverished scribes of history weave foaming seas of literature, yet the creator they invoke is nothing but formless dust.   No fear— our history is drenched in fevered tales, yet who will settle the debt of those ancient dwellers, whose lives remain untold?   Those who long to narrate seek only wealth, tasting the coin instead of truth, buying and selling the flavor of your being.   But on this path understanding never blooms. Chronicles written half-heard, half-known, fuse into false unity, wasting years in vain.   One day— our houses filled with wasted words, literature and history alike will stand stripped bare, and human nature itself will turn heartless.