In the Basement

(The Book Thief)

The perspective of Max Vandenbur- a Jew, a friend.

They say the sky is made of blue,
But I have only shades of dust.
A ceiling low, a world askew,
A breath I borrow, dreams I trust.

Each footstep up above, a song-
A lullaby or quiet dread.
I count the hours, harsh and long,
While war writes numbers on my head.

I paint the walls with words I find,
To fight the dark, to stay alive.
A boxer in the rings of mind-
With fists of ink, I dare survive.

The girl brings pages, light and air,
She sees the soul behind the name.
In stolen words, in broken prayer,
We trade our silence, not our shame.

She brings me words in trembling hands,
Like lanterns lit in shadowed lands.
Not gold, not bread, yet somehow more-
A knock of hope on cellar door.

Each syllable, a breath, a light,
To chase away the hungry night.
She reads, and I forget the war,
The fear that sleeps beneath the floor.

Her voice- my window, clear and wide,
Where dreams and daylight dare reside.
I’ve never seen the stars so near
As when her stories draw them here.

A book, a girl, a quiet chair-
And suddenly, I’m everywhere.
Beyond this room, beyond this name,
Beyond the echo of my shame.

She brings me pages, torn but true,
And in their ink, I’m born anew.
For words, once stolen, now return-
To heal, to fight, to dream, to burn.

I am the name they want erased,
The blood they seek, the faith they chase.
A label sewn upon the skin,
As if my soul commits sin.

I am the silence in the wall,
The shadow pressed against it all.
A breath too loud, a step too near-
I live each hour sewn with fear.

I do not sleep, I only drift,
In dreams that crack, in thoughts that shift.
A cough could cost the world I know,
A sneeze, and down the trapdoor goes.

They call me ghost, they call me Jew-
But here I’m Max. A man. A friend.
Though the world isn’t same as the one in which I grew,
I’ll dream of it through her words until the bitter end.