Why do you run?
Why do you hide?
What is the reason of this anger?
Why are running footsteps to the attic heard so often?
Shall I find you again, huddled in a corner?
Will I see trails of tears on your pale face?
I always ask myself that question, yet I have always known the answer.
Your hope you had, slipped through your outstretched fingers.
It doesn't take steel or wood to injure someone.
War doesn't hurt only those who fight.
It pains the ones they left behind.