Poetry

I do not want to take you,
either the road ahead,
or lovely gyrations
on low stage of voicelessness.

The swoop of eagle
on a little bundle,
of chromatic fever:
was it unbirdy?

The tree of death grows taller
than indelible darkness
of life, harvesting
tongues.

Part of me were you,
I had abandoned in fog.
The gate will not open
in common courtyard.


Satish Verma