In The Hands Of The Valar
A slender figure clothed in white,
Who stands before the swan-carved prow,
And watches as the flowing tide
Bears him onwards, bears him home.
A tale woven through ages long,
Her shadowed halls of ancientry,
Where storied webs record the truth,
And Vaires weaves his tale.
A wind blows chill from night of naught,
And catching it, the silver sails
Bellying outwards, race the wind,
For Manwe speeds him on.
About the bow the waters throng,
And white spray, flying, taints the air,
With taste of salt; A sea bell tolls,
And Ulmo bears him home.
Small elven boat of grey wood formed,
In likeness to a flying swan,
Whose timber grew in woodlands fair
Where Yavanna planted long ago.
It's masts of fine wrought silver made,
Of adamant it's tiller forged,
By mariners who crafted long,
While Aule guided their hands.
Grey ship that sails for fairer shores,
Which bears that small and precious one,
There summoned by the Herald of Death,
The Doomsman cries his name.
Forgotten warrior, sacrificed,
Brave fallen one, they weep for him,
The elven tears like silver fall,
And Nienna weeps for him.
No sword he bears, no shield holds,
No shinning armour gilds his frame,
No eldar host with spears of ice,
But the Huntsman walks beside him.
And tight enclosed by his small hand, the brightest star that ever shone.
No other talisman he needs, but this, the unconsuming fire.
Of Feanor and Earendil,
The stars of Elbereth guide him home.