Old Friends

Old friends, old friends
Sat on their park bench like bookends
A newspaper blown through the grass
Falls on the round toes
On the high shoes
Of the old friends

Old friends
Winter companions the old men
Lost in their overcoats waiting for the sunset
The sounds of the city sifting through trees
Settle like dust
On the shoulders
Of the old friends

Can you imagine us years from today
Sharing a park bench quietly?
How terribly strange to be seventy

Old friends
Memory brushes the same years
Silently sharing the same fears

Пол Саймон
"Bookends", 1968
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