Unbroken

- jan-u-wine

What is it like,
I wonder,
to have memory
lie
peaceful and complete
within one's mind....
 
peaceful,
like the still eye of the Anduin,
 
complete...
 
like the unbroken links of a fine chain.....
 
 
Oh, yes,
Sam,
yes,
 
I
found it.
 
I imagine
(if, in fact, you thought of it at all)
 
you thought
it lost,
 
buried,
 
like everything
else....
 
curtained
by rock
flowing like the Sea
in its anger.
 
Its mark is here,
about my neck,
and it
 
sings
 
Sam,
 
it resonates
still
with cold desire
if I touch it.
 
That is but the ghostly remainder
of it: 
 
the fractured reality
lies,
like silver'd water,
within my hand.
 
I have not bothered
to wash
the blood from it.
 
It was made by the Elves,
you know,
and so,
even though it threaded
evil,
it itself survived,
shielded by grave beauty.
 
It is beautiful still,
 
silent,
 
winking back at the Sun,
 
broken length
spilling
from the small sanctuary of my hand.
 
It has no purpose
now,
 
no purpose
whatsoever.
 
No one save me would know
if it were to find
its resting place
among the pale lilies
that stay upon the river-bottom.
 
No one save me would regret
that a thing of such careful design
had met
such a careless end.
 
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
 
It is long hours
since I visited the dark bank of the river.

I let it run out,
through that empty space
which mars my hand.

I watched it
settle,  
shining still,
within the night
of the river bottom.
 
Nothing lies
within my hand
now....
 
nothing sings
within the shuttered
rooms
of my mind.
 
Nothing
but muted
colors
drift,
like music
I once might have known,
jagged
with half-held memory.
 
As it was in the beginning,
so it is at the end:
 
nothing....
 
there is.....
 
nothing.
 
And it is for that
I weep,
Sam,
for all the things
I cannot ever
explain to you
(and all the things
you know
without the explaining).

Those things grieve me even more.
 
Every bit of my life,
Sam,
whether large,
or small,
has all meant naught.....
 
it has all burnt away,
reduced
to a broken chain
of forgotten beauty,
lying beneath slanting silt.
 
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
 
What
have I been
saying,
Sam?
 
You must not heed
me
when I've just
woken.
 
It is not me speaking,
then....
 
it is just
 
dreams
 
and
they will pass,
as all things must.
 
Do you think
they will let us
start for Home
soon,
Sam?
 
I should so like
to see the Hill
again,
dressed
in the soft fire
of Fall.