I dig tombs. If want, I will dig a tomb and for you — it is indispensable with 
The account of your wishes. I will make it for a symbolical payment. It is pleasant to me 
My job. I take the most part of time on fresh air and in silence, 
Broken unless singing of birds and a rustle of leaves. Gradually I get used 
To silence and a smell of the crude earth. You will get used also. 
        Besides, to me delivers a sheer pleasure to see, how 
Your person when you realise that is a question about really will change 
LAST shelter, also will begin to choose for it a place. Many concern to 
To choice it is too serious, and some give sound, with taste 
To the made monument and the decent neighbourhood hardly probable not bolshee value, 
Than to houses of the live. 
        Unfortunately, millions and millions are deprived the option. Suppressing 
To quantity of people the place on a cemetery is defined by the callous bureaucratic 
By car. Our ugly civilisation chokes in a death vice. Dead 
It is too much to respect last desires of the live. 
        But tombs reconcile all. The former enemies and lovers nearby lay, 
Parents and children, sacred and sinners, philosophers and murderers. And though the creative 
Jobs at me becomes ever less, I do not complain. Now everyone 
The client on expensive to the bill. One recently came. Judging by its kind, it yet 
Will soon see a pattern on an inside of a cover of a coffin. Nevertheless it 
Has concerned death with due respect. We long wandered with it on a cemetery. 
I showed it the most undercover corners. Eventually at it has deteriorated 
Mood, and it has begun to bustle somewhere. At parting he has thrown, that will come still 
Time. I was not surprised. The choice is difficult, even if the death is represented far. 
        Should notice, in it something is. In a youth I thought: instead of all 
Whether it is equal where to die — in a palace or in a roadside ditch? Roadside 
The ditch looked where more romantically. But in the course of time you become circumspect 
Also you start to appreciate every minute the rest, paid not sufferings, 
Transferred to the past, and confidence that in the best way 
It was prepared for the unknown future — even if the future is not present. 
        Actually it after all is not present. There are only foggy phantoms, 
Arising in our consciousness, the reflexions of the present rejected in even 
Nothing the filled emptiness. I see before myself a dry channel of time. 
Instead of water in him the history flows — bears me and you on the wave which has rushed 
Twenty billions years ago from the broken through dam of the Universe, and early or 
Late we will appear in the Death Sea, among the gone out stars, out of a flesh and 
Distances, out of thoughts and expectations, out of fears and dreams. 
        I have reconciled that never I will touch a non-existence riddle though 
Daily I deal with dead persons. The non-existence is sealed in them, as if in safes, 
Reliably storing secret. Safes can be burnt, but together with ashes will vanish and 
Itself escaping potustoronnjaja true. Speak, there are burglars, but I 
The such did not meet. Old, rare sorcery; the forgotten art. If 
It is the truth, I would like to render them the feasible help. Certainly, service for 
Service. Let will open the safe at me. 
        Nothing will be compared to a non-existence riddle. There is nothing more 
The intriguing. About a life I can build guesses, at least. A life sometimes 
Yields. Dealing with a life, I feel melancholy and bitterness of losses. I 
I feel leaving time as if amplifying wind. It constantly blows in a back 
Also adjusts towards night. A non-existence — as an eye which can see all 
Everything, only not itself. It — duality generation, darkness, 
Hidden in light embraces, the canvas which has been painted over by illusions... 
        But you thoughts of the grave-digger concerning your death hardly interest. 
Possibly, you wish to translate somewhat quicker conversation in a practical channel and 
To get off me. Does not leave. I will show you a cemetery. I will show also to you most 
Undercover corners. I do not hurry anywhere. Dead men are patient — unlike 
Their live relatives. WHILE live. 
        For originals I can find something exclusive — island, 
Glacier in mountains or in Antarctica, absolutely near to the frozen beings with 
Stars. For poets there will be a place under an oak on a slope of a hill, 
Towering over boundless plain. I guarantee open space, clouds, the sky and 
Wind. Tremendous declines and risings. Or you prefer the granite 
Labyrinths? Too it is quite good. Respectably and strongly. Inviolability 
Crypts? Remarkably. Twilight of caves? Please. Ocean noise? We will make. 
        Anything you like — if only to see, how your person, when you will change 
Will choose That Place.