- Primula
Deep in the barrow,
Sickly, pale light
Death's luminesence and decay.
A sword at their throats,
The gold weighs them down;
Deep in the darkness will they stay.

Deep in the barrow,
A spark of defiance,
One whisper coming, a voice gone dry.
Strength of desperation,
Hewing at the evil,
Deep in the barrow yet they lie.

Ho! Tom Bombadil,
Tom Bombadillo!

Deep in the barrow,
A hand creeping closer,
Memories with life remembered not.

By water, wood and hill,
by the reed and willow,
By fire, sun and moon...

Clotted in the darkness,
Cold, pale and mocking,
Redemption's gold moulders unsought.

Harken now and hear us!
Come, Tom Bombadil...

Shaking hands,
A lifetime of heartbeats
The pale hewn hand that yet bears unlife,
Drawing ever nearer
Through the bones and gems its
Slowly moving death throes never die.

Deep in the barrow,
It cannot hide forever.
For none can catch the ageless singing master,
Driven from its stone lair
Strength of songs behind it,
Barrow-wight flees but Tom, his feet are faster!