She was the only beautiful thing
In her dark world
Bodies were falling apart around her
Since her childhood
She couldn’t read or write
But she was the book thief
She stole “ the gravedigger’s handbook “
And when she was asked
She said -it wasn’t always mine-
She met a bird
Who was forbidden from life
From seeing the sun and the daylight
She described it for him
The weather, the day
The coldness of the snow
The heat of the sun
Painted the pages of a book
Then she wrote her own story
The book that the bird gave her
And said “write , words are the only thing that make us humans”
She was living for books and words and lines
She lost all the dear souls
Under the left pieces of war
Except her book
And the bird
Jun 6, 2020
Jun 6, 2020 at 8:54 AM UTC
She was the only beautiful thing
In her dark world
Bodies were falling apart around her
Since her childhood
She couldn’t read or write
But she was the book thief
She stole “ the gravedigger’s handbook “
And when she was asked
She said -it wasn’t always mine-
She met a bird
Who was forbidden from life
From seeing the sun and the daylight
She described it for him
The weather, the day
The coldness of the snow
The heat of the sun
Painted the pages of a book
Then she wrote her own story
The book that the bird gave her
And said “write , words are the only thing that make us humans”
She was living for books and words and lines
She lost all the dear souls
Under the left pieces of war
Except her book
And the bird
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