in quest for the other quests those were unknown
The square tiles, and the points cut, on crossing them over
The long hop, the short hop, the hop hop, the puddle left by the rain shower
The zephyr, the thoughts flew with
The smell of the palms, he grew with
A few Small big things that lost the place they used to hold
He runs, and runs even more
The closer he gets, the farther it goes
He never draws the lines,Those were always there to be drawn
He is the king, sometimes he is the pawn
The quest, lost its place, to the Things that lost the place they hold
The circles exist
And the king and the pawn, always end up in the same box.
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