Tiny, light feet perched
upon a breaking branch;
as it sways, sways, sways
to the time of the restless wind.
A songbird chants a warning tune
as Morannon lets loose its rage.
The battle cry sounds:
“Charge!”
and the soldiers rush
against the enemy’s force,
seemingly unbeatable,
never-ending.
Along the rims of a plain so wide,
as far as the Eye can see:
stands a Gate tall and high;
where the Enemy’s armies surround,
and the tide of war unbounds.
Tens of thousands of hammers fall,
a scorching echo against little ears,
cries ring through the burning air;
a pounding in frail hearts.
Yet, still,
the strong stand,
until the dark pierces them through,
until the light fades away
with the glory of the to-be-risen sun,
until their hands are still again.
As teardrops slowly swell
beneath closed eyelids,
a songbird trills a warning tune;
of life unfelled,
unbeaten and unbroken,
faint hearts full with hope,
the sobs of those who neigh defeat.
For far, far away:
from distant white shores,
a ring calls its true bearer;
as sharp as a sliver of sun,
in the pyre of Mount Doom.
A dying winter with no green inkling
of spring buds, unfurling;
a night with no distant pinprick
of a warming dawn
uncurling bright fingers.
The songbird whispers
its song of freedom,
as the eagles begin their chorus.
Victory bleeds with
the guilt of living,
the burden of enduring,
with the loss of light,
with one’s final breath.