Thoughts on ‘The Book Thief’

He came and stole the words she loved and hated,

In his pocket, while he gathered up the souls,

Confounded, over- under- estimation,

Humans with their fatal faulted goals.


Concentrating Nazis, all those people,

Compliant, in vicissitudes, they blamed,

As Death patrolled a world of colour flaming,

Where only very few were ever named.


The nameless marched and shuffled, sockets sunken,

Scarce of bread, more scarce of liberty,

Scapegoats for moustached aspirations,

Pillar-scourged by Christ’s humanity.


Muslims now, where Jews, or maybe black folk,

Gays perhaps or aborigines,

Red-skinned, each condemned in one stroke,

Pointed fingers back at you and me.


Death patrolled and wondered while he captured

Souls before they fell, he held them tight,

Whatever had they done and why the rapture

Of others he would meet one day or night.


Munchen times, the Dachaus and the ghettoes,

Golan Heights, Great Plains, upon our streets,

Look no further for the scythe or saviour,

Everyone we meet and how we greet.


Sickle thoughts while reading and to living,

One rush of air we’re gone, he passes on,

Steals our words, our actions, as deposits

Comes and goes, collects and moves along.


Banked eternally, all of our choices,

No choice for death, he does as he is told,

A Book Thief gifts her love, compassion,

Death carries secrets all should be foretold.

The Book Thief

 

 

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