Frodo, after the Scouring
Can they see it?
The stains on my hands
The blood of those I have killed
Washes away, but not the memory
Yes, I have killed, but not by sword
With my hesitance, weakness, and fear
I should have left long ago
The highest and the lowest
I have to my account
I pay for them, and never forget
Nineteen sons of the Shire
Lay in the Battle Gardens
Who is responsible for their deaths, if not I?
Should I sail West?
Will my hands be cleaned at last
Or will the white shores echo
With the sound of lonely footsteps?