dotting my guitar
my aching knees
as I watch,
silent in Berlin
history repeat itself
on another stage
Every month I paid my dues
week after week
as I strummed my guitar in bars
proof of my discipline
to make myself , my family anew
but... nothing is new
96 years old today and
I witness war again
oppression again
genocide again
but I am not to speak
so I pick up my guitar again
futile perhaps in action
but my notes hang in the air
marking my sorrow
that man is son of sisyphus
rolling a stone up the hill
only to roll back
forever
saying uselessly
never again
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