Dibyendu's WallScript

The heart brims with nectar, while steady eyes watch as the great tree slowly descends, crossing mountains no one may surpass.   Weariness spreads across the mind— the strength to walk remains, but not the strength to think.   The heart, scented with lemon, fills and overflows as the tree lowers itself, slowly, slowly, into the earth’s deep silence.   Down into the soil it goes, drawing sap upward into the chest, where the frail heart aches with blood, or breaks into a stream of tears.   Before thought can gather, the gaze rises to a sky lit in red and blue, its light playing with a weary mind.   Yet the body finds again its will to move.   The roots fall into gravel, searching the soft silt, and the heart, in its longing, fails, again and again— throughout a whole life, unceasingly.

In the grip of pride, pain climbs scar by scar, along the failed inscriptions I follow forward— a dust-choked path, a worn-out sky, the nectar of painted dreams etched into blood and flesh, into their fragile reflection. Thousands of pages turn, lines of words marching ahead toward a tradition without meaning, toward the path of infinity. It feels as if years ago, perhaps from the very birth, the wings of knowledge began to spread. Yet still, so much pain remains, and pride lingers, speaking with the erased souls in the language of a wise poem. After so much knowing, I find myself hungry. Knowledge has not yet arrived. The body cannot be separated from its science of living, however much I wished it. Instead, it is easier— to play the fool, to laugh as an idiot, ignoring morality, staying alone in silence. The heart, erased from the road, does not wait for wisdom— not even for the honesty of the body. And I cannot even laugh with purity anymore. The weight...