No scale of size, or time, or distance holds;
a man is but an atom, hung in space.
Each moment an eternity unfolds;
no friend lives here; no enemy to face.
A mountain range becomes a pile of stones;
a plain a patch of sand, or mightly sea;
a million years a heap of whitened bones;
a kangaroo a pre-diluvian flea.
reduced to nothing, man is only mind.
He wins or dies by what is stored inside.
Such load of human treasures he can find
determines if he can himself abide.
No wilderness can drive him mad if he
lets great men of the ages set him free.
[from the Desert of my Heart and Mind by F.J.A.Pockley 1912-1990]