By No Man's Hand


DarkElf poetry for the 2nd Age of the Sun


The fields of the North were once a carpet of green
A fair and flowering garden in the wold
Red have run all the blossoms now
A harvest of shattered steel and splintered shield
More dead than those left to mourn them

He drinks the air of the battlefield
Smoke and charnel are to him as fragrant bouquets
The Witch King of Angmar sits upon a steaming steed
Blood red eyes and scabrous flesh
Fanged muzzle frothing around a barbed bit

Deathless dead, victory is unimportant
The deed is done; the North had fallen
Were such an evil one capable of mirth
His laughter might stain our ears;
With silence he is content

There is Prophesy in the air this day
None who look on can doubt
The Shadows will grow long and dark
Before the day that they are finally illuminated

I stand in the field sown with sorrow
My sword hanging heavy in my hand
I see my Lord from afar,
Golden hair gleaming in the growing morning
I hear his words, know the Truth of them
And I wish that I might come forward to his side

It is not yet time

- Lothithil