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