Traveler from Gondor

- Primula
Boromir,
You have grown tall and strong,
With the manner of your father about you.
Occupied with your own thoughts,
Your own ways,
Which you deem best for all.
Like he did, and his father did also.
You believe yourself perceptive,
Thinking to sway the hearts
Of all men, to turn them
Where you would have them go.
You have forgotten there are others,
Other men, other tales,
Other ways.

Your own sword is unbroken.
You gaze upon the shards as a relic,
A curiosity from the dead, distant past.
After all, you are Now.
What hold do histories and legends have
On you?
Only to tally the number of battles,
To give each triumph a Name;
That you may list them in your lineage,
The accomplishments and grievances of
Your forebears.
But you are not listing back quite
Far enough.

Patterns from faded tapestries
May live, and love and even die
More than you can know.

Your future
May not be so ready to your will,
So ready to obey your guiding hand.
Your future may not be
Named what you would name it.
It may not bear your name at all.
Your Past
Lives, Boromir. And it is
breathing softly in the moonlight
Very near at hand.