It’s not as if we dislike the other’s way,

but we go our own, nevertheless,

and it’s not as if one’s path is especially different,

or even special, or even something

that the other could not understand,

for our differences are so minute,

our genes, if examined in the light, so very similar,

and our backgrounds, in the main. same town,

same ethnic nose and linguistic tone.

But, time has had its toll:

where one’s age creeps, the other runs,

and the crevices into which we fall are not the same.

Still, we hold to the rail, and, though tracks diverge,

we hope we shall meet again at the end of he line.