Drifting 'tween the Golden leaves,
In Lorien, a song is born.
Beneath its boughs, the Eight do grieve,
Their leader lost, their hearts forlorn.
Sweetly sad, the song begins,
its tendrils loosed as from a bow.
Reaching ears that know not when
their sorrow's hold will from them go.
Amongst the Eight, there stands an Elf,
his highbrow shining bright and true,
his thoughts return to Dwerrowdelf,
where Fire and the Shadow grew.
He could do naught, his bow no use
against this Demon: Durin's Bane.
And on the bridge, his light profuse,
the Pilgrim fell so they would gain.
And now beneath the cool Mallorn,
the Elf doth listen to the strain.
Their light and hope was from them torn
thus renders so his heart with pain.
"O Mithrandir! O Mithrandir!"
"What does it mean?" a Halfling asks.
"O Mithrandir! O Mithrandir!
"For me, the grief is still too near."
His face still clear, his blue eyes bend
where he can see the song still floating
between the leaves of Lorien,
it whispers of a deeper calling.
Amidst the lilting depths he hears
a burst of power comes unlooked-for.
And in the maelstrom of his tears,
the vow he made he renews once more.
As was, as is, as e'er need be
his bow and quiver bent in service
to one who's bound, this Ring and he,
a soul so pure, untainted, selfless.
"Though great our loss, our story goes
beyond these woods, so fair and dear.
We must go on and face this Foe,
Even with a grief so near."