ANCHORAGE

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