by Sweta Srivastava Vikram
A part of me died
when I saw Libyans
weep for their missing relatives
in a land where I had found laughter.
Power and politics evicted bees,
demolished homes with hands of protest.
The sand dunes that caressed my feet
witnessed shapes that didn't belong there.
How can a parent kill
knowing the dead child won’t come back?
The wind changed direction,
camels drowned in the water they stored.
The journey looks lost,
I gasp at the time that’s gone by.
Eyes don’t keep written evidence,
seeing the revolving doors, memory suffers most.
Sweta Srivastava Vikram is an award-winning writer, Pushcart Prize nominated-poet, novelist, author, essayist, columnist, blogger, wife, yoga-devotee, dancer, and oenophile whose musings have translated into four chapbooks of poetry, two collaborative collections of poetry, a fiction novel, a nonfiction book of prose and poems (upcoming in 2012), and appeared in several anthologies, literary journals, and online publications. A graduate of Columbia University, Sweta lives and writes in New York City with her husband. Sweta also teaches creative writing workshops across the globe. Follow her: On Twitter (@ssvik) or Facebook.
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