He was old and getting older as each day passed,
Slowly his friends had died off and he was the last.
His memory now afflicted with bouts of fog,
Sometimes flashes of clarity oozed out of the bog.
His favorite word was tsuris as all the woes he had endured,
Of all lives problems that plagued him as his life matured.
There was death plucking away loved ones with no rhyme or reason,
There was the countless days of work and toil throughout the seasons.
Life was interrupted with bouts of depression and lows,
Life to him was a constant pain of emotional blows.
And now he lived in an old age home with people he did not know,
This was the end and the tsuris did fester and grow.
Across from his room was the room of an elderly man,
A man speaking in German with curses at those who gave him a hand.
Two men from different points of view,
Both men about to face the end with trepidation and with no clue.
For both had met each other so many years ago,
Though the fog of age had blurred that fact in shadow.
The German had worked in a camp of horror,
The Jew had escaped for he feared no tomorrow.
The German looked the other way,
And allowed the Jew to run away.
Two men met in a second on a field of snow,
Neither knew each other but their lives changed so long ago.
Now they both sat in chairs awaiting the grim reaper,
A shadow of death now coming as a black creeper.
Both died at the same second in a gasping breath,
Each welcomed the end of life with the adventure of death.