Old men, they lean against each other in my bookshelf town:
Tolstoi and Nabokov, and Kafka next to Eco. Among them numerous
writers stand, or lie, some straight up, others almost jumping down.
So many of them dead but in denial perhaps,
ideas still there, inside their bodies with the fading covers.
Some start to rot and page by page let go. They stare at me
with questions more than I can answer.
Read me before it is too late, they whisper.
I pass them with closed eyes but hear them:
all thousand writers in my bookshelf town.