What am I, really?
Am I the lost child, the one searching for hope.
Or the old man, nostalgic for his own world.
Am I the fire, the fury that burns through you.
Maybe the ice, freezing to the bone, the blood.
Perhaps I am the peace, the quiet calm of meadows.
Or am I the war, the blood soaked, ruined people.
What am I, except all of these?