In the forest of dead,
I keep walking,
I keep exploring..

I love to be here
I love this suffocating air..

Not a man alive visits this deadly place,
It's a tree grave, dead bodies are its grace..

They were killed to be turned into books,
A man killed a tree, for another man you see..
But I see them filled up with dust,
And the bookshelf's rust..

Termites have residential blocks,
No man I ever saw, if here walks..

No proper seating, no proper lightening,
But do the ones who create darkness, need any brightening?

Every book's cover has been torn,
Every book's corner has been worn (out),
But not by those who were supposed to read,
But the ones who in these do breed..

Its a grave, a unkempt one,
Spiders, bats, rats, Termites, ants, dogs, cats,
All live with peace and harmony,
Even the dead trees are doing good you see....

That's a view of a public library,
Our world after D-Day probably