The View From the Path
Many different groups march along this common road, it’s lanes are wide, its cobbles always cold.
Though appearing so different to the others, when viewed from above all look like brothers.
Each group envies yet follows the group ahead, and pities leaving scraps for those they dread.
Members of each group yearn to be in its vanguard, and to not fall behind they all toil so hard.
Some with better game than the others, advance forward, all would if they had their druthers.
Those on the path all share the same tongue, a childish babble, from mouths so young.
Groups towards the front shine with silver and gold, those in the back a bit more dim, weary, and cold.
All march for the same reason, though few if any could tell you why, for knowing has never been their concern, only marching, following, chanting their groups battle cry.