We know with intimacy, our own minds,
But to the minds of others, all but blind,
Are we, for though, we may approximate,
Their thoughts, we can but merely speculate,

And offer our conjectures as to how,
Our counterparts perceive the here and now
I know just what a color means to me,
But when my friend looks on, what does he see?

And, could it be, the kindly, kindred fellow
Sees my own 'red' as slightly tinted yellow?
Could it be the case, my sight defies,
The scenery presented to his eyes?

Perhaps we simply aren't meant to know
The worlds that our companions' senses show
And that it's this ineffable mystique
Which makes us, each and every one, unique