Dibyendu's WallScript

There was a script upon the brow, a bird of pain, exhausted now, its feathers blue with endless flight, it circled poles of northern night.   The sun lay split by sharpened steel, beneath the dunes the corpses sealed; old branches whispered carrion song, the vulture’s hymn had lingered long.   “ Water—give water, Satyaki, here!” A desert opens in the seer; cold sweat ignites the nerves of flame, a mirage blurs the sacred name.   My sins have turned humanity bare, like summer streams that vanish there. O Fox Ascetic—see how far life staggers beneath its civil scar.   Why climbs the tree of culture vain, if spider-sand still knots the chain? Execution grounds at dawn were raised, promises lost in twilight’s haze.   The vultures fled the city’s breath, they seek the battlefield of death; their hunger carves through flesh and bone, in sands where I must die alone.   My mind in terror, heart in flight, the body learns its means to fight. Fox Ascetic walks the wo...

Day or night, the same words circle, colliding— each phrase pushing, each phrase striking, until someone slips, and another’s future is born.   To live, one must fight, having entered this country by birth, dragged into every battle, forced to carry oneself only for oneself.   Beneath the lampstand sits the ash-covered one, alone. And alone he walks the path, evading all— the fraud, the blow, the endless trickery of days.   Morning, evening, twilight— the trap of words surrounds, the riddles of the world entangle life entire.

Unborn time slips into undergarments, caught in the net of heavy sleep— the poem lies bare, its chest exposed. From ancient ages past it returns, parched, resting its head upon a thirsty breast, building a house of longing. Advancing time— at the grave’s edge, wordless fury searches for the hook of a blouse. Danger hovers here: Chaitra birds flutter in flocks, between new leaves, blind summer flies scatter. Crisis of existence— a fragile safety zone, wandering between ice and fire. Blow against blow, we ignite ourselves, burn to ash, fall mute in smoke. All things begin. All things end. Between them I sit, watching— death staring both ways. Our season of crisis: mouths strapped in latex, humanity collapsing, lost in the theater of solitary pleasure.

A dry afternoon. The pond holds the sky’s clear image, waiting for ripples, for a breath of motion. From afar I saw your transparent blue eyes— a vision that crossed from this shore to that. Nothing left to interpret. And who dares to say: stop, pause here a moment? No one. We no longer stand still for anyone. We move forward— unstirred. The pond now silent, its water unshaken. Skin smooth as lotus leaves, emotionless, hollow of heart. In Baishakh heat, fights and quarrels flare. Our blind eyes see no inner life, no family, no kin— all gaze fixed, like a heron-monk by the pond’s edge. I thought there was tenderness in those eyes— but beneath the water fish shadows trembled. And when my gaze fell into yours, motionless, confessing love, suddenly the heron’s beak pierced downward. A single wave rose. The killing took place. And then silence— the stillness of a cremation ground. Those clear blue eyes— of the killer. We do not stop anymore; each walks...