Black Aubade

Light in the morning
But dying, not growing.
A door into the dark.

A circlet round his neck
Silver snakes entwined,
Eyes of ruby, blood-red.

Son of a chieftain
In the hunt his horse
Outran the hounds

His father guards
An empty throne but
His son would be king.

A horn is blowing
In the forest. Boromir
Is the quarry now.

Braver than his betters
Prouder than a prince
Beloved Boromir

On the night river
Faramir his brother
Dreams a sad farewell

The winter trees hide
Arrows sharp as guilt
Promises kept and broken.

This is a black aubade
For the last morning
Of your life.

One cold kiss in parting
And Aragorn
Feels his world tilt.

- Varda