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
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