- Eressëa Nole
Grey mists cling
as hooded figures march West.
Silent they move,
stealthier than a cat.
They take light with them
hiding beneath their cloaks.
Their beauty is to leave forever
their grace is fleeing behind . . .
our world is bare now,
void of all kindness,
empty of softness;
they are gone.
We are here.
Now is our time:
to create our own beauty,
to find our own grace.
Now we shall grow into our own.