Running - Always Running.

Running, running.
Always running from the men.
They come and they order.
They spit and then,
Down with the witch, the elf of Illithin.

Running, running.
Always running from the dwarves.
They stay in the mountains,
Protecting hords.
The old dwarf, my ruin carves.

Running, running.
Always running from the orcs.
They come and plunder.
Killing even the storks.
Killing elves is among their sports.

Running, running.
Always running from the Pherinnath.
They come and seek,
From me the gift of health,
The gift I wish I had myself.

Running, running.
Always running for the Great Return.
I will go again to my home,
Where the water will quench my burn.
With me, the others will make the turn.

Running, running.
Always running to the sky.
The place where my heart soars,
Up and above the clouded mountains high.
Only there can our Power truly fly.

Running, running.
Always running to that gleem,
That only we, other than the readers see,
Where the kings and queens the faithful prowdly deem.
The land that manny call a dream.

Running, running.
Always running into the wood.
The second clocest thing to my home.
The place where the smallest person could,
Only do what fate said he should.

Running, running.
Always running to the map,
Of the place that I,
Can again smell the sweetest sap,
And where the king of the skies, his wings proudly flap.

Running, running.
Always running from that fatefull cry.
The one that settled once deep in my soul.
For it belongs to the gull, the one who surely needs not hard pry.
To resist it is folly to even try.

Running running.
Always running from the past.
It aches within me,
My memories even after this long last
Day when I can only use the power to see with the flowers into the water cast.

Running, running.
Always running from myself.
I sit and think,
Never leaving the book shelf.
Yet never can I leave, the elf within myself.

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