The Great Hall of Poets – May 2016


By Lydwina Marie

The leaves are green, the trees are cold,
for the Greenwood is very old:
Water crystal-white, flick’ring flows
like tiny dancing shafts of light.
Ah! Mirkwood, shadow of the past!

The Elves no longer wander free —
they are withdrawn; or else they flee
with age-old grief and unchecked tears.
Falls in gusting sheets of water
sparkle in their endless stream.

Dol Guldur, evil place of might,
has set fair Elves in desperate plight.
To flee or stay while darkness reigns
is the choice that is given them;
Or they may leave for Valinor,
bright land of shining golden swells.

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