She was about nine or ten
selling bunches of red roses
a tattered frock, mangled hair
but her eyes – shone!
as she stood on tip- toe and stretched out her hand
when my car stopped at the traffic signal.
I smiled and she smiled back
“Aren’t you afraid of the cars” I asked
“No” she laughed
then showed me a wound
which looked like a dark rose –
the colour of blood!
The Dark Rose
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