Two Ols Friends (EN)

- Hi, good old champ!
- Hi! How are you?
- Well, can't complain. I'm still alive!

A corner booth, two cups of bitter brew,
The steam rising up like ghosts of youth they knew.
One wears a wool cardigan, buttoned up tight,
A man who’s been safely tucked in for the night.

He talks of his garden, the porch on the rear,
His daughter’s promotion, the grandkids and beer,
The steady-state pension that lands on the first,
About life built to withstand the worst.

Across from him sits a lean, weathered frame,
A rolling stone missing a home and a name.
His jacket is frayed, but his shoulders are tight,
With the wind at his back and the open road wide.

- Once I woke up in Prague, or was it Beirut?
I follow the map wherever I'm good.
No lease on a door, no mortgage, no chains,
Just the hum of the tires and the midnight trains.
Bro, I travel light, until my final stand,
With a ticket to anywhere I invent.

Oh, the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence,
Two old vis-à-vises at the table, two old friends.
One counts his gold coins and his quietened years,
While the other counts stars through his wandering tears.
One envies the anchor that keeps a man still,
While the other cries for the freedom to go where you will.

- You think I’m content in this fortress of brick?
I look at my walls, and feel myself sick.
I know every crack in the ceiling by heart,
I play the same boring loop from the start.

To wake up at seven, to sweep up the leaves,
To watch the same swallows build nests in the eaves...
I’d trade all I have, this silver, this gold,
Just to feel like a road has a story untold!

- And you think I smile when the shadows grow long?
When the midnight wind plays a hollow old song?
My freedom is a desert, an empty space,
And I’d give up the world for a welcoming face.

No one is waiting home for me,
Because there's no home, no door, no key.
I’m master of nothing, adrift on the deep,
With only the echo to watch while I sleep.

Oh, the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence,
Two old vis-à-vises at the table, two old friends.
One counts his gold coins and his quietened years,
While the other counts stars through his wandering tears.
One envies the anchor that keeps a man still,
While the other cries for the freedom to go where you will.

They clink their chipped mugs as the afternoon dies,
Two childhood friends, with tears in their tired eyes.
They hugged goodbye; said they were glad to meet.
Then part in the dusk down the differing street —
The man with the world, who hates the world,
And the man with the seat, who hates his seat.

[(c)VonRaven, 2026.]