Things out of reach are
Things always present
For their constant presence
Creates the illusion of absence
And though seeming close at hand
Flee faster than can be pursued
And now seeming to reach them
Only transmute themselves in
The distance ahead, which
Ceaselessly grows and extends
Until you turn around and see
Anew the country you have crossed
For where you are is always
At the centre of your thoughts
The edges of which
Circumscribe your reality