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?