And maybe, someone else will have use for it too.

Photo by Author

The books of all the world will burn in a fire today, baby. You can save one. What will you choose? Choose the ones to burn. You have always known which one. But that way, all of us together in the end will burn every book away. One book or another. But choices being choices and for what they are, faced with an act of piety for civilization you will snatch your book up from the red and black tinder at the edge of the fiery monstrosity.

The flames will be reaching skywards and licking sideways towards every book, edging…

Same old
Same old
Same old hills.
My eyes, drying
up the mist.
The night,
by the pine.
The leaves
The leaves
The leaf.

We bend
We bow
Down the stream.
My legs, blind
to any dream.
The kite, the squirrel
long asleep.
The mill
The stones
from the mill.

Same old
Same old
Same old man.
My son,
The father and the son.
I died, long
before he’s gone.
The mist
The mist
The trees.

Photo by Sasha Freemind on Unsplash

Clouds and Silhouettes
In the sky
Perhaps and maybe
They will lie.

A broken rainbow
Will bring it all
Down and,
We’d know.

Rain and thunder
In the ground
Surely they will
Make a sound.
Of mud and clay
Of wet and day
Shadows speaking loud.

I know the snow
From some yesteryear
Sprinkling stardust
Without a care.
Dogs and cats
No fighting bone
Sweating, like a noon.

Limbs and words
Twisted still
Like the moonshine
On the sill.
Signs of life
Here and there
Just a sigh, nowhere.

Photo by Mads Schmidt Rasmussen on Unsplash

We, the sleepless
The sheet
The breathless.
We sway like the river
Running stoneless
Running wild.

We, of color
Of white, so heartless
Rustle mindless
Hustle life.

Like hunger
And the mad men
Of the dark vast nightless
We, the flightless
We, of the white.

Photo by ORNELLA BINNI on Unsplash

They say, Time
can be folded
like a bucket
on a rocket
in a storm.

I know ’tis a love poem,
will it take us
back where we started
a year ago.

They say, Light
can be splitted
like an atom
in the bottom
of a quasar
in space.

I know ’tis a love poem,
will it make us
spin different
a mile away.

They say, Truth
can be twisted
like our shadows
on the cycle
in the sun
near the stone
in the park.

I know ’tis a love poem will it get us will it know us as…

The Decalogue of Writing

How I broke the 10 commandments of writing on Medium

Masks that make us — fotografierende on Unsplash

His God is God
— Rameses

I need a new Prophet. There are the fat ones with yellow teeth,
the gentle men of a different time, the ones whose pithy books I buy, the ones of my generation with roses in their pockets and finally, those who wrote by the sea while writing about it. My prophets mostly, are down and out in a city, somewhere — like me, my strange reader.

I need a new prophet now. I have decided to write about how I have sinned. False or otherwise the choice might be, but it is going to…

Arbeit Macht Frei

Or how the tracks we built, set us free.

The method of crushing stones and laying tracks using brutal human labor remain unchanged wherever lives do not matter — Photo from

I crushed the rock.
We laid the tracks.
I stood inline
To lay me down.
My heart
In my sole
As no one watched.
How we lay
As wooden men
Railroad ties
In gauges broad.

We worked to free
In narrow gauge
The track to work
The work for home.
How we lay
As bolted men
In wooden bunks
The exact space
Of an arm.

I tied my all
All I owned
With my guts
No shoelace, none
In a handkerchief
On a pole.

I have to take
The track to home.

No whistles, or smoke No steam, nor sight…

Medium member since March 2020

How I discovered 3 incredible rules for writing, maybe for life.

Illustration by the Author

Like everybody else, I started writing in March. No, wait. It was April. I was born in April. Forty-five years ago in 1975.

I have been around, you know?
Like Frank Slade defending the Charlie in me, in my court.

I took my bows, when people clapped
And my curtain calls, for one response
You brought me fame and fortune and everything that goes with it
My 100 fans, I thank you all.

— Tongue-in-cheek apologies to Freddie & Ev

On April 5, I wrote my first poem in Medium, inspired by Dr. Victor Frankl and my poor, dead father…


Irreverent, joyful, human, but never sad, letters from a father to a daughter he cannot have

The Tower of Babel by CCXpistiavos from Pixabay

Come, let us go down and confuse their language so they will not understand each other — Genesis 11:7

My dearest Lizzy

If you stack all the books that have been written so far, on your little head which I love to touch so much, you will look like an enterprising black ant with the Eiffel tower on top of you.

That tower though was never meant to be the tallest.

Many many, many days ago, before we started recording time, there was a single language that everyone spoke. Everybody understood each other. Translation wasn’t even a profession, you know.

Our shadows will no longer need a street lamp

Photo by Jordon Conner on Unsplash

If only the Sun were dark
Our shadows no longer need a street lamp
We can look down into our souls
right through our eyes
As we walk
While they look up into ours
Like a pack of cards
In the hands of a magician
Playing to himself
Or herself in barber town.

The rain in the night
Will wash the tree trunks clean
They will shine in the moon
With the glee of dirt
Of the kind that remains
Forever And black.

Will our hair be black
Even in those places in our body
where now there be light?

Sanjukt Saha

Engineer, mostly on Paper. Founder @wallobooks @onebillionminds. I am creating magical storybooks for children in conflict zones —

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