Éowyn's Harp Song

Warhorns in the spring
Waken the blood, make
Horses paw the earth
Banners unfurled, never
To be yielded.
By oath and treaty
Only the dead come home.

Not for us though,
The ragged music of war
Only the gentle rhythm
Of nursing the sick,
Tending the old
And laying out the dead.
Wearing a life away.

Mewed like a hawk
Among dusty pigeons
Fed on duty, like
A sick whelp on milk.
Admonished by example
Not the clash of spears.
Courage needs no tomorrow.

I have my own war music
Singing in the blood,
Revenge for all the days
Wasted at bedside and table
Across the plain
In the bitter killing wind
The bowstring is my harp.

- Varda