The leaves fall not in winter but turn from green to gold.
Tall trunks smooth and silver reach high into the sheltering canopy
Where flowers of yellow sweetly scent the springtime air
Sentinels of welcome and of guard,
Giving shelter and life to those who dwell among them.
The wind sings softly through the leaves
Telling of the world that once was,
And will no longer be.
Here there was no sickness and no stain,
But now the golden light dims and the Darkness nears
Not even the great trees can keep it at bay
The time to leave this place is at hand.
My home is with the Mallorns and I am loathe to leave,
Though I know that I must soon go.
Are there great trees on the hills of Aman?
Or will I look always to the east,
For the part of my heart, left behnd,
Beneath the mallorn trees.