With every step, home falls further away.

This is the furthest it's ever been,

And the closest it will ever be.

Never again shall I stand in those places,

see those things, or know those people.

If I somehow could, it would never be the same.

In far-off places where time stands still,

the houses are all empty and cold.

No fires burn there; the air itself is sadness.

I cannot go back. I don't know if I would want to.

But those moments, if I knew I'd never have them again,

I'd have felt them, tasted them, loved them more.

Instead my eyes fixed further back, to even more distant homes. Was I old already?

How long until I fix my gaze longingly on this place and think the same?