Pride And Despair
My line has fallen into darkness, never again to rise.
My son's pale faces accuse me, and death between us lies.
Faramir lies still on a table of stone in the darkness before the dawn,
And at his side I place the shards of a cloven silver horn.
He struggles and moans in his fevered dreams, he calls out his brother's name,
While beyond the shadow of Rath Dinen, the city collapses in flame.
Grim visaged death and carven ghosts, dead figures etched in stone,
Whose sightless eyes upbraid me, last guard of a forsaken throne.
In the courtyard, tormented and broken, the white tree stands awaiting the King,
Not knowing that the line has been broken, that the dark one has regained his Ring.
You cannot break me Sauron! Last steward of Minardil's line!
I will never yeild, though all be slain, the high throne will never be thine!
The palantir burns with a heart of fire, kindled by his malice and hate.
And I watch as black-cloaked and menacing he halts before the white gate.
The ghastly spectre of death rides on, trampling o'er a corpse-built mound.
His cry stings the air like venon, and the shattered gates crash to the ground.
Proud and defiant, I turn away, the tide of despair rises higher.
The deathbed awaits like a heathen throne - Bring oil for my pyre!