A Window On The West

My window looks out on the West
And here I love to sit
And watch its battle skies
While all the lamps are lit.

But when the shadows creep
Across the lawn
I pull the blind, and stoke the fire,
And shiver.

Before the Journey I loved to rove
When night fell on the woods
With friends, or better still, alone
Singing Elven songs.

But that time is past
The darkling woods
Are full of dread, the sun
Is dyed in blood.

Night-scented stock
Breathes through the window, planted
By Sam, to ease my heart,
Almost as if he knew.

He shuts the window, almost as if
He felt the fear as well, scolding
‘You’ll get your death, Mr.Frodo!
And look at the height of that fuchsia!’

Yes look at it, Sam.
Its branches crowded
With tiny scarlet warriors,
Slain by autumn.

‘You won’t be able to see out!
I should have cut it back hard.
It would grow again
In the spring’

But I was cut back hard
By blade and tooth and sting.
By things not wholly seen.
For me there is no spring.

My window looks out on the West
And from here I can see
The last of light, the last of all
That once was dear to me.

- Varda