I still remember her, that little girl.
The one that loved to roll down grassy hills, not caring if she stained her clothes, giggling when she reached the bottom.
The one that would dance, not caring that someone might stare.
The one that would sing, not caring if she sounded bad.
I remember her, and I wonder where she went.
But it doesn't matter. For now in her place,
There sits a boy.
A boy who's face is sullen and tired, with a body he is ashamed of.
He no longer rolls down those grassy hills, worried that someone may come along and rebuke him.
He no longer dances or sings, terrified at the thought that someone may notice.
He tries his best not to, but he still remembers her, that little girl.
He knows that she would look at him and ask if he is alright.
And he does not know the answer.
He cries, wishing for nothing else than to hold that little girl in his arms, but it is impossible.
And so he sits, arms wrapped around himself as he cries. And the only thing he could say:
"I remember her, I remember"
