The summer I was seven
I made perfume from petals
Rode my bike down to the sea

Now seven is your number
And it hasn’t been like mine
You heard parents’ whispered fears
Felt walls crumble, choking dust
Emptied wordless red goodbyes
Seeing, unseeing, fleeing
To a place that isn’t home

Tonight on Beirut’s corniche
I walk hastily away
As you offer me a rose
And the thorns pierce deeper still


Girl of Sorrows/The Rose Seller