Ghiath Matar is Dead
1 min readMar 26, 2019
A brown boy who planted
Roses in barrels of machetes
Died fighting for freedom.
He did not spit at his oppressors
He did not belittle them
He simply existed
A fragile centerpiece
Perched atop a world where even laughter,
Even brotherhood,
Even poetry,
Is rebellion.
And in his absence arose a question, magnified
What happens to the people
When lead and drying thorns collide?
