Lament for the Fallen
by Mrs. Adam C.
Like the faintest breath of air
your life is to me.
When ages pass, I shall remain,
and you shall cease to be.
Here I lie alone, with you
ever dwelling in my mind;
Painfully I watch and wait,
for I’ve been left behind.
War, the thing that keeps us torn
from each other’s loving arms.
Threatens to devour you
and do the world more harm.
Shall I wait here, my dear love,
for tidings of your defeat?
Or shall I sail across the sea,
with memory of our love, retreat?
It is the tragedy of your kind,
and the gift to the Edain,
To live or die, in peace or war.
While Eldalië live on in vain.
Our love with loss forever bound,
and with uncertainty,
Bitter or sweet, I have to choose:
I have weighed them carefully.
Your white shores I shall not see!
Undómiel shall never come,
lest death deliver her to thee.
Tears of bitterness and grief
flow down my weary face.
Lúthien, I know your pain,
to love the fallen – from grace.
A Lone Traveller
A lone traveller, homeward bound,
seeking comfort in the dark the night has found.
His heart is heavy and his brow is grim,
for his feet are weary and his eyes are dim.
But the road keeps winding on and on,
through woods and fields and valleys cold.
No company save mist and moon,
for the wind’s begun to sing the autumn’s tune.
Then, passing by the halflings’ land,
he comes to a sudden stand –
a soft whisper! a glimmer of light!
behold! silvery shadows in flight!
Away, a golden shimmer dances on the leaves,
caresses ash and oak, then disappears.
And the night is back to silent, chill,
but the man, he dares not move, stays rooted still.
He does not know what he has seen,
and yet his eyes are filled with tears.
And though a hint of sadness still lingers in the air,
new strength it gives him, the lone traveller.
Heir of Numenor
He lives in exile as a ranger,
He is the chief of the Dunedain
Skilled with bow and blade he is,
The last of a noble line
He bears the ring of Barahir,
He wields the sword reforged
Elessar, Elfstone, descendent of Isildur
Aragorn, heir of Numenor
Minas Tirath is fading
And the white tree is dead,
Gondor is in ruin
The white city will not fall to Boromir you said
The days of the Stewards are passing and gone
The sword that was broken is forged again
For days of light this is the dawn,
He bears the love of the lady Arwen
Justice and peace will he bring
When he is crowned rightful king
A great warrior is he, and learned in lore
He is the heir of Isildor
Aragorn is rightful king
Over the great realm of Gondor
Justice and peace will he bring,
Love and joy will he restore
Peril and exile has been his lot,
Yet never power has he sought
Come Elessar, king of men,
Restore the days of light again
Fight the shadow back,
Crush it at it’s core
Estel, hope, for the world of men
He fears the heir of Numenor
Kingly among the sons of men
He comes to claim his rightful throne,
Hope he bears and will he bring
Behold the Return of the King!
“To Rivendell, where elves yet dwell
In glades beneath the misty fell,
Through moor and wild one rides in haste,
To find the peace the stories tell.
All worthy of a painter’s quill,
For who in long the time stood still,
The Eldar laugh and sing about
Their valley of no ill.”
Cillendor said “I composed it as an acrostic, so the first letter of each line spells out IMLADRIS. The literal English translation is provided as well.”
Imladris, ias edhil ui-dhorthar / Rivendell, where elves always dwell
Mi bairth nu chithui lanthir / In fields beneath misty waterfalls
Lêdh pen trî laid throe a nîn / Travels someone through fields wild and wet
Adh îdh bennen vi bint hîr / And peace told in stories finds
Dan i ribas lû Imladris hâf / Against the flow of time, Imladris sits
Renn adh i degil e-deithor / Remembered by the pen of the artist
In edhil gledhir a linnar o then / The elves laugh and sing of it
San imrath i ú-hâf naid thoer / This valley that has not anything evil
Ode to The Hobbit!
Filled with adventure
and fire dragons,
with heroic characters
and triumphant kings!
With a black cover
as dark as night
and the golden tipped mountains
to the red setting sun.
Has delicate smooth pages
and careful binding.
Filled with writing of pure genius!
Like fine wine aging with perfection
and as beautiful as the
The Hobbit is a god
with mighty power
and a flower full of color.
it pulls you into
a world like no
A work of singular