Frodo of the Shire
- jan-u-wine
Frodo of the Shire.
Oh,
the smallness of those words,
just the four them,
sombre-ink'd and solitary
upon the snow
of the page.
He is within them,
you know.
All
that he
was,
all that he
is,
all that ever he might be,
captured,
distilled,
radiant.
And we see him,
there,
within the frame of those
plain words,
the young Master
Under-the-Hill,
the round of his face
burdened
with naught more than the
rich blush of a harvest Sun,
sweet-toned laughter
rising
to meet a lemon-rind Moon,
word-eager eyes
drinking a scholar's Elvish wine.
We see him,
thus,
upon a road
where night
finds no
ending
in pale-rose day,
where the candle-breath
of hope
flickers
and is extinguished
by despair's hard hand,
where mere death
should be
a kindness
beyond
measure.
We see him,
ever, now,
within the mirror
of our dreams,
the simple beauty
catching our hearts
like
the memory of distanc'd
music,
like the tattered silk of fragile
melody,
twining the tapestry of his
story
to ours.
We have but three words in answer to your four,
Frodo of the Shire:
Lye mela lle*.
We love you.
*Sindarin.
