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?