Sestinas by Shelob

- Shelob

Forest Dreaming

In Fangorn's darkest trees, most ancient
winds blow through dusty woods.
Where, Treebeard, Father of all so old,
has walked since mountain became stone
and men's graves have rotted bones,
with dreams of love, turned to ashes.

Trees seem to shift, as fire burns ashes,
Paths twist like limbs, crooked and ancient.
Windblown branches, break like brittle bones.
Always, he is searching for a trail of woods,
across cold and rocky roads of stone,
as years march on and time grows old.

Misty rains of spring, fall on trees, old.
As lives of men drift like ashes,
blowing over tall walls of stone.
Built by kings of olden days, ancient,
as the oldest Father of all woods,
walks slowly, stumbling over roots of bones.

Hot summer sun warms old silent bones,
and a soft breeze whispers past the old
trees, as he wanders in gloomy woods,
seeking the Entwives, their gardens, now ashes.
His friends from long ago, more ancient,
than old mountains made of stone.

Autumn leaves drop down, upon the stone,
covering the ground, as dust over bones,
of kings. And iron men stand on ancient
tombs, guarding graves of soldiers, old.
Bloody battles, long forgotten, cold as ashes,
from fires burned through charred woods.

Snow falls quietly in Fangorn's woods,
retreating from Isengard's broken stone.
Searing, remembered pain, of fiery ashes,
burning branches, weakened like bones,
of men in moldy graves, or old
ghosts of kings from lands, ancient.

In dark woods, where silence lingers, thick as ashes,
we dream of ancient trees, walking across stone,
Their gnarled limbs, like bones creaking, ages old.

Night Mist

Wearing cloaks of black, their eyes a burning flame,
Looking for a land called 'Shire' somewhere, West.
Riding nine horses, coats, dark as the night,
They swept over the land, a nightmare of terror.
Deeds of evil, cold and shrouded in mist,
Once, great king's of men with enduring power.

By the Dark Lord, Sauron, given nine rings of power,
Soon corrupted by greed, like a burning flame,
To the village of Bree, through cold river's mist.
Three rings, are treasured by Elves of the West,
Protecting hobbits and men from Nazgul's terror,
Keeping Golden Lothlorien safe in the night.

Bitter wind blows cold mist, across Weathertop at night.
It once was a great watchtower of kingly power.
Black figures of shadow cause trembling terror,
As Ranger of the North wields weapons of flame.
Frodo cries "Elbereth Gilthoniel," Elvish prayer of the West,
And falls to the ground, lost, in a swirling dark mist.

Desparately seeking the 'Healing Plant' in the mist,
Strider stumbles on roots and rocks in the night.
All your skill is needed now, future King of the West,
For the Ringbearer has fallen to an evil power.
Pippin and Merry gather wood to brighten the flame,
Sam whispers his master's name, heart filled with terror.

Five Ringwraiths retreat, leaving behind them terror,
Their ghostly shadows disppearing into grey mist.
Frightened hobbits stand, shivering, near the flame,
Bitter wind blows cold mist, across Weathertop at night.
The Ranger knows that he must find Elrond's power,
To heal Frodo's wound for the hope of the West.

"Elbereth Gilthoniel," grant thy strength to Man of the West.
The pony runs from the dark glen in terror,
Fleeing the Witchking's wrath and dark power.
Fear envelopes them like a thickening mist,
Bitter wind blows cold mist, across Weathertop at night.
No warmth is found in the bright fire's flame.

Dark Lord's servants of power versus Man of the West,
The bright flame creates flickering shadows of terror.
Bitter wind blows cold mist, across Weathertop at night.



The Rohirrim


They run, manes flowing in the wind, Rohan's horses.
Green grass ripples like the sea across rolling pastures.
For many years the Horsemen have called this land home,
Young lads practiced riding until they were men.
Lord over all was Theoden, mighty Rohan's king,
Protecting his people from the bitter East wind.

From Mordor, in the East, blows an evil wind.
Snorting and prancing, run the powerful horses.
Grima Wormtongue deceives Theoden, the King.
All the black horses are stolen from their pastures,
And stories are told of the wicked deeds of men,
Tho' the horselords of the Riddermark, save our home.

Eastfold, Westfold, East and West Emmet and Wold was home,
And the King's Golden Hall stood against the strongwind.
From the White Horn Mountains to Fangorn, ride the horsemen,
Brave warriors on strong and beautiful horses.
Riding to the Misty Mountains over grassy pastures,
Loyal they were to Theoden, their wonderful king.

Wearing corslets of silver, carrying green flag of theKing,
They rode to war in lands far from their peaceful home.
Galloping into the East, leaving behind gentle pastures,
A dark cloud and a Shadow come with the East wind.
Bringing fear and despair to both men and horses,
As in the early grey dawn, rode away the King's men.

Into distant lands and battles rode the brave men,
Spears glinting in sunlight, Shield-warriors for theKing.
The wind blows cool in their faces, fanning tails of horses,
As they gallop towards the mountains, far from home.
Dust drifts from their hoofbeats, soundless in thewind,
Trailing behind them like smoke across the pastures.

Foothills of the Misty Mountains meet the green pastures,
Dwelling place of a brave, yet gentle, race of men.
From North, South, West and East sighs the wind.
Horselords of the Rohirrim, led by a true-hearted King.
Their families wait, for the men's safe return home,
Preparing a royal welcome for the most noble horses.

The cold North wind sweeps over the far pastures,
As glorious horses, ridden by Rohan's finest men,
Praise an honorable King, whom gave his life, to save their home.

Song of the Ringwraiths

Always have men desired treasures of gold,
Traveling far, to Misty Mountains of stone.
Greed for power, leads them to great evil,
As ages pass away and bones grow old.
Now and forever, they must live in darkness,
No longer kings of men, but formless wraiths.

Moving shadows in the night, fearsome wraiths,
Ever seeking Dark Lord's ruling band of gold.
They ride black horses through the gloomy darkness,
Galloping to the Shire, hooves strike sparks on stone.
Following overgrown, twisted paths, through forest old,
Frightening all the farmers with fell voices of evil.

Driven to madness by Sauron's commands to do evil,
Riding, fast as the wind, dark, shadowy wraiths.
Their silver crowns of steel from kings of old,
Whose treasuries once overflowed with gold,
And silver, mined from ancient halls of stone.
They gallop, madly, through mist of cold darkness.

Passing small Shire villages, a cloud of darkness,
Ghost riders of the night, ever seeking evil.
No longer remembering kindness, hearts turned to stone,
Robes of black, hang, on bone like bodies of wraiths,
Disappearing into the twilight like sky fades from gold.
Haunting roads and alleyways as the dark night grows old.

Asking about "Baggins"? of the Shire gardner, old.
Sound of hooves, slowly fading into the darkness,
Riders sharp swords, trimmed in silver and gold.
Through all the long years, wrought with much evil,
They wander, without friends, pale and lonely wraiths,
Climbing up and down, perilous, steep roads of stone.

Cold and icy winds blow across the hard stone,
Whispering, about days when their cities were old.
Before greed and malice turned them into wraiths,
Bringing fear to all, under shadows of darkness.
Their very beings, inherent with great evil,
Forsaking all honor, in their desire for gold.

Nine terrible wraiths, faces, carved skulls of stone,
Search for a ring of gold, cut, from Sauron's hand of old.
Riding in the autumn darkness, bringing a nameless evil.