He is old and he is senile,
Can't remember what he's done today,
But he can remember so long ago,
Way back many yesterdays,
But is it right to judge a man,
When so many years have passed,
Of a time where only whispers remain,
Among the stale smell of gas?
He was merely a bookkeeper,
Doing what he was told,
'Do your bit or face our wrath...
The Russian front is cold!'
And so he filled the log books,
With the few, meager belongings,
Of those who came before him,
Not necessarily of his calling.
So who are we to judge his crimes,
When we're too young to remember?
We never heard his victims' cries,
As he healed his Führer,
And yet there are survivors,
Some as old as he,
Others a little younger,
And yet they are all agreed.
I grieve over their suffering,
And my heart aches with their grief,
And I worry that my own kin,
Should have to suffer their belief,
And yet, I know they have done,
It seems to be a fact of life,
That suffering your innocence,
Is history's vice.
As we are all but Haman,
Why can't we all be equal?
Imagine, if we were all equal;
Would war need so many sequels?
We don't fight over a found God,
We fight for insecurity,
The propaganda of the chosen few,
Who grandeur in impurity.
Auschwitz must have been,
A hell behind the fence,
And my heart will always ache,
That we haven't learned the lessons,
Bosnia and Belfast,
I.S, and the west,
Have we not suffered enough already?
Is religion the real quest?
I do not debunk the many Gods,
That try to simplify our lives,
I simply ask the question,
Are you true to your own life?
Be what you have to be,
It's your choice, by default,
To learn by your own mistakes,
Will take you closer to your God!
So yes, Oskar, you should be convicted,
Simply because you had a choice,
To listen to your conscience,
Or grapple with another voice,
So you chose the propaganda,
Like so many others before.
I fear your wheel will always turn,
And we will forever be at war!