Forty-three years later we still feel
the same way, still laughing at
the same jokes told and retold,
but wait, there’s a certain cautiousness
in the way we act or think, no longer
impetuous, not rushing into anything
anymore, the chair is occupied now,
unlike before when we were walking,
running, standing up, seldom sitting
down, perhaps that’s how it is with
wiser men, preferring to sit down more,
thinking more, reflecting more,
more time to think things over, and
when we see each other, we still
recall the blind obedience to a cause,
yes, we were like soldiers, deep-seated
love for an ideal: “you’ll be a man, my son,”
we were 17 or 18 years old then, we’re
past 60 now, who would imagine that
we could still be the same brods of the
basement, carrying the one who’s hurt,
not minding our pain too much, because
we’re brothers and we’re not heavy,
43 years have passed, some have gone
ahead, their names on our lips when we
see each other, mourning still, oh, who
would have imagined that we would still
be here, brothers after all these years.

Happy birthday, batch ’70!