She is a flower but she sells plastic roses

Sasha, is a 7 old year old kid thrown out on the roads to trade innocence with plastic flowers, fumes and smoke.
Sasha, is a body that reeks of sweat and streets, is a pair hands that are held out in hope.

Sasha wouldn't whine about the indelicate and insensitive summer heat,
If only false roses could melt hearts before her skin melts to her feet.

Sasha, the colour of her eyes, and viscosity of her voice, she is a marble statue that burns in rage.
But you should see how she's caged. She's bond in, within this 3 way and that highway, an unending maze.

Sasha, through years she has caught the colour of summer in the knots of her hair. So when the winter comes, she knows where to find newspapers and kindlings and how to start a huge fire with little care.

Sasha is secret warrior, battling each second, her timeline is her only crime.
There are sacred spells carved out of scars and stories on her skin, cloaked under filth and glime.

When you meet Sasha, don't warn her of getting lost, don't give her a map to roam. Chiseled on the palms of her hands, roads are her only home.

So I asked her, tell me Sasha, what happens when nobody buys your flowers.
Her gaze pierces right through my eyes, and speaks for her tongue, she says,
"On a no sales day, madam, hunger is an uninvited guest I scornfully welcome with garland of unsold plastic flowers."

Sasha doesn't want to be a musician because she never slept with music seeping into her ears. She doesn't know know what music is. Maybe her mom sang her a lullaby, maybe she doesn't have a mom.

Sasha doesn't want to be a poet. She doesn't know how to build castles out of sentences. She doesn't know many words. Maybe someone unwillingly made her cram some to sell flowers. Maybe she doesn't know what those words mean.

But wherever you are, may you know this Sasha, we air-conditioned, well bred, well read, well fed, well spoken beings, we are poorer than you.
Your richness inspired me and all I could give you are these carefully rhyming words. Words that won't feed your siblings, smiles that won't quench your thirst, no canopy of paragraphs to offer you a shade either.
No life to gift to you, Sasha.
But how I wish you could be me, how I wish you could see yourself through my eyes and write a poem about your ferocity. How I wish you knew that no words no music no paintings no movies can ever justify your pain.
Forgive me Sasha, I should have bought more flowers. We all should have bought more flowers. We all must buy more flowers.
Because the rose that you buy, that rose decides, if Sasha should live or die.