Mí Isilmë

- jan-u-wine

Mí Isilmë *



Fragile-parchment-pale,
this moon,

head drowned in lemon water-clouds,

light falling all but to naught
within the pool’s dark  hunger.

Brittle sharp-bitter rock
 
reminds
my feet

they are far
from the gentle paths of Home,

Winter’s dying fingers
make their cold rest beneath my cloak.



Somehow,
there is a blessedness to this place…..

a
remembrance 
of good

lingers here.

I feel it,
as if the stones themselves yet

echo
from feet glad with the walking,

as if the waters of the pool

recall 
the moment their chill beauty gained crystalline voice.


Sudden understanding fills me,
holds me in gladsome silence: 
   

This is my Home.

This, as much as any other.


When I am far from this place,

lost
and weary of my burden,

it will call to me, 

its voice a shadow upon the wind,
its memoried touch a comfort

in lands emptied of all but dread.         

In dremes

the Window
shall open ever before me,

blood-sun scattering His purse of colour
(spendthrift lord of light)
upon the water’s

silver veil.  

In dremes shall I see this moon,
smell the grasses lying tender and sweet
beneath it,

feel the wind which remembers the Sea upon my cheek.


But now there are no dremes.

Only water glinting cold below,
and a voice,

twisted by sorrow and treacherous time,
speaking to itself in the pitiable night.

It is part of me, too,
this voice,

as much a part of me as the weight
which bows my head,

Or my Home, so many grievous leagues behind.       


Memory and madness,
this voice,

betrayed and betrayer,
this voice,

wretch
and

wretched,
this voice.


I give him over to judgement.


To save him,
I tell myself,

to save him.

In time, perchance, he may

return
the favour,

repay this well-intended deceit  with one of his own.


In time,
he may be

the saving
of me.

______________________
*Quenya:  In Moonlight