Sunday, January 1, 2017

Old Guitar Man

His arms were tired,
His fingers bent.
And the music he played
Smelled of death.

He caressed the strings,
He thought of her.
The melody he sang
Smelled of death.

His head was bent,
His body was broken.
His old guitar
Had already spoken.

One cold winter day
He played his last piece.
His rusty strings
Had already spoken.

Nobody remembers
The poor guitar man.
His corner is deserted
His frets untouched.

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