For Aragorn and Eowyn
After the sun sinks red into the sea of wrath,
A dark shroud o'er the barrow field lies.
The stars' chill radience now faint and distant seems,
No power left to gladden bitter hearts.
Scattered they lie o'er the aged tombs,
Bright eyes that peep from dew be-speckled grass.
Each snowy petal formed with flawless symmetry,
As tears of silver fallen by the way.
Beneath the hunter's moon they seem to shine,
As if within each blossom lay a star.
So fragile, to last through ages long, unchanging.
Such pale innocence, the flower of the dead.
About the tombs of ancient kings they lie,
There strewn as in a song of mourning.
Reminders only of a perfect love.
Whose petals all too swiftly fall and fade.
Like distant stars whose chill no comfort yeilds.
Broken now upon the warn torn land.
Now dead, but yet remembered, bittersweet.
Loss grows not easier with the passing of time,
But only deepens as the final knowledge comes,
Regret stains every heart that ever loved.
And every love is tainted yet with grief.
Like moonlit tears, the dew lies o'er the grass.
Amidst small blossoms wrought of silk and pearl.
That yet remember the forbidden love,
One perfect union, never spoken but in thought.
Now unrequited, unrestrained,
One all-enduring memory.
Silent, he places in her hand a single flower,
And for a trembling moment his fingers brush her own.
It lies in her white hand, small perfect miracle,
And startled, she looks into his sea grey eyes.
"The tomb flower my Lord?
What gift is this for a woman upon her wedding night?"
Now for the last time in his eyes he bears his heart,
Which knows no deciet of custom nor propriety,
But only a shadow and a thought,
A dream not bound within the circles of this world.
"This last gift I give unto thee,
White lady of Ithillien,
Because evermind is for rememberance."