Sons of Denethor, warriors proud
Boromir and Faramir of Minas Tirith
Stewards of Gondor, their fates bound by birth
Are cast different means to prove their worth.
Proud Boromir, the elder, wishes to rule
Volunteered for the Quest to destroy the One Ring
Though noble the cause, in the final hour
He is unable to resist the lure of its power.
Gracious Faramir, the younger, feels the pull less
Understands that this circlet is greater than he
Could take it by force, if he would so desire
But pushes away the black murmurs and red ring of fire.
Denethor, their father, Lord of the Realm
Seduced by a Palantir, chained to its sight
Mourns the death of his eldest, his pride becomes sin
Sends his remaining heir to battle, one he cannot win.
Shattered, the father harkens to the tale
Of how Boromir, outnumbered, took up the call
The ancient horn of Gondor bellowed its might
But alas, the hero fell in the thick of the fight.
In his grief, the father lashes out at his second born son
For failing to take what his brother could not
Wishes to call back both time and fate
And Faramir, shocked, feel’s his father’s cold hate.
“Would you that I had fallen to the Enemy’s hand?”
Cries Faramir, to his father, in stunned disbelief
“Should it have been me, not my brother slain in the wood?
And would you wish to have the situations reversed if you could?”
Denethor’s hot gaze was fixed on his face
But just what he was seeing was a mystery to all
For a moment, it was not the king sitting on the high seat.
But a stranger, consumed, by an unholy heat.
“I would,” said his father, his stern frown like a storm
“Boromir, at least was under no wizard’s sway
His death is far more of a tragedy to me
For the Ring would have become his and Gondor been free.”
Faramir turned away, so great was his pain
Like a knife in his chest, a pressure so great
He felt he might buckle and die where he stood
For he now knew his father was lost to him for good.