They say this is the way
to the cemetery of books.
      The only way. There is no other way
 – this is what they say.
     There is only one way to this place.
    But it is not sure whether the route
we are taking is this very way.
And it is not sure
    if such a cemetery exists.
          If such cemetery really does exist
           then how could the books get there?
        If the people, the readers,
     brought the books there,
     they would know where it is
     and they would know the way,
     because if they didn't know the way 
      how could they bring the books there?
And how could they come back?
Or maybe they don't come back.....
And if there was only one person,   
a very special person,        
    the only one who knew how to get there,
sooner or later this person    
would be recognised and pointed, 
even working absolutely secretly,     
under the cover of this enormous brightness.
However nobody has ever heard of such a person.
So, we must accept as true             
a supposition truly incredible:     
books get there by themselves.
Somehow..... Maybe they fly – when they are open
 they look like birds spreading their     
 wings – so they should be open,     
they should be left open or     
they should open themselves.....   
All this reminds those stupid tales
about cemeteries of elephants.     
About old lonesome elephants      
who go to die in one place.  
Such a place had to be dreamt
by many an ivory merchant.
     Somebody who found such a place
         would be the owner of numberless tusks,
     and easily and instantly would
turn into a millionaire.
          This dream was fed with those stupid tales
  and those stupid tales were fed
  with this dream, as usually.........
        Of course, we can't expect the road is marked,
there are any signs indicating
where to go – no, there are no such signs.
         It's good we know it can be one of the white tunnels.
Unfortunately we don't know
where we know it from, well,
         it means where this supposition comes from.
Maybe somebody read it in a book,
      but we don't who, and when, and in which book.
         We can also suppose there are many indications,
  many hints, in many different books,     
  like scraps of a map scattered all around.
        However nobody knows how this map might look like,
           thus nobody knows how its scraps might look like......
It might be printed white on white paper.....
        Oh, what an interesting and fascinating bullshit.
Because it is bullshit. Really.        
Even if we assume that books do care we,
the readers, consider it a bullshit –
      there's no better way to protect the secret.....
Is it really important?
Everything is but one huge cemetery.
Yes. It is.
Only dead bodies around.
This beautiful, half wild garden,
somewhere above us, or beside,
              or maybe even under, is just a tip of dead bodies.
                     Everywhere piles of corpses, but they can't be seen.
Rubbish and litter can be seen,
and the corpses can not.          
Only occasionally, from time to time –
             some scattered feathers, not eaten mouse guts,
     a trace of tragedy, or remnants of a dinner.
But you can see a lot of dead flies
on the window sill in the studio.....
          well, the studio is not garden, what a pity......
          Do we need one cemetery more? A special one?
A cemetery in a cemetery?             
A cemetery within the cemetery?        
Let us be burnt, let us our ashes be      
scattered all around this beautiful meadow,
         let our ashes be blown away by this beautiful wind.
Has anybody ever seen the dead book?
 the corpse of a book?              
Books are being born. That's obvious.
This can be seen. This can be followed.
This can be filmed and show in TV.   
Purportedly everything that is born, will die.
       “Purportedly” is necessary, for we are not really sure.
Maybe there are beings which are born            
(or begin to exist, appear), but don't die       
 (or don't cease to exist, don't disappear).    
Or they haven't died yet – although     
they have been living (existing)        
for millions of years – they will die 
(disappear) in millions of years        
and nobody will notice, nor film it,
and thus we will believe            
they are immortal (undisappearable).
Not all books which have been born
  (or which have been written and published)
         so far, still exist. A part of them don't exist.
We know about some of them,       
we know at least the titles.      
We know nothing about a lot of others.
They vanished. Like thousands,         
        millions of butterflies have vanished.              
They were flying, fluttering their motley wings,
       they were sparkling in the sun light and they vanished.
Let's imagine: the last copy of a title has been
consumed by the flames of big fire. And?
Is it the end? Annihilation. Death.
Nobody will read this book.            
If it was not interesting, then          
nobody would tell anybody about it,           
nobody would remember it                 
either with emotions or with indifference.        
Nobody will tell about disastrous stories,           
either lies or exaggerated raptures.             
Nobody will feel sorrow, because nobody                
will know anything about its existence.              
Maybe a book is being born,                    
when I begin to read it, and it is dying           
when I get to the end and put it back on the shelf. 
Then the book-shelf, the library,             
would be the cemetery of books....                
Well, a stunning metaphor, tricky, overdone, monstrous.
                      I can imagine a noble commission,
                which having examined thoroughly a book
     can state solemnly and without any hesitation and doubts
 that this very book is no longer worth reading,
that everything what is written in it,          
every word and every phrase, are but a wheezing
  and panting deserving to be called the last breath.
              Here is a dead book. A corpse.
        Now it has to be buried.
     Either in a nicely design coffin.
           Or in a clay pot. Or in a silver trunk.
    Or burnt on a gorgeous stake.
       Or recycled. Some organs can be taken
   form it and transplanted to some other
 chronically ill books. Depending on merits.
And by the fancy wish of the noble commission.
. . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
A book itself is a cemetery.
            Because every word is but a murdered,
slaughtered thought.
     Look at a text like at a plan of a cemetery.
Rows of tombs, alleys in between.
A mournful metaphor or genuine truth?
Not genuine truth – this sounds much better,
             less tragic, a chance can be heard in it,
 an illusion... . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Or imagine something like that:
having read a book you pour
all words into a giant vessel,
mix them up, stir and grind,
then you pour out a totally new composition,
new combination, new story on blank pages.
            This is the death of a book – this is the birth of a book.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
When a word is dying:
       when nobody uses it any more?
when nobody remembers it?
            when it can't be found in any dictionary?
Because if it is stored
              in a dusty corner of someone's mind,
             if only one person's mind and this very person
       could take it out from there in any moment,
it means it is not dead yet,
the life is still flickering in it.
       So, dead words are those words which ceased to exist,
which have a status as-if-they-never-existed.
It is impossible to indicate the number of dead words.
It is impossible to say or write anything about them.
Because they are dead.                   
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . .
However they could be collected in a book,
that nobody would know it existed.         
It had to be guaranteed (who could do that?),
this book would never be found,           
because finding this book would mean the resurrection
of all the words written down in it.              
And resurrection would mean they were not dead.
There shouldn't be even the slightest        
suspicion such a book exists,           
because the suspicion would mean    
the possibility to find it,            
which would mean sparks of life in these words.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
     There is no cemetery of words,
     because it simply can't exist.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
While a cemetery of book could exist.
How come? Dead book with living words in them?
No, there would be no books.        
There would be only titles.              
A cemetery of books would be but a catalogue
 of books which are not existing any more,
       which are not available. Nowhere. In no library.
In no second hand book store.      
Only reviews would remain. Like memories.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
      If a word is a tomb of a thought, then this text,
like any other text, is a cemetery.
You can look here and there.       
Exhume something, this or that....
 What can you choose? Anything.   
      Just take of different vampires and zombies.
      Why this very land should be free from stupidity,
      if the stupidity is but a cemetery of wisdom,
       and there is only a vast cemetery all around us?
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Well, where have we come to?
What have we finally achieved?
It's empty all around us.
Once again we got lost.
       How can we get out of here?