In golden halls of river caves
and forests of ancient trees,
Elven-lords, fine homes they made,
their songs, lingering, on the breeze.
Grey garments of the softest cloth,
they walk, like shadows, across land,
age-old memories forever lost,
as time, through an hour glass of sand.
A love of beauty in all things,
they were, by nature, clever and kind,
protected with power of three elven rings,
forgotten, ONE, ruled by Sauron's evil mind.
In sorrow it has come to pass, the elves must leave
this land they love, and only ask, that we not grieve.