At Last - Treebeard's Lament

Long slow hours are brimming over
and eyes filmed and covered with recent days
lift back to show the eons of care beneath.
Such endless watching, waiting
Feeling, breathing.
One could just stand for a week and sigh,
looking upon the plains and
smelling the airs of storm and change.
One could reach long fingers to the moon,
and always stroke, and miss.
There are trees that bow so low,
they collapse, and are torn by lightning.
There are autumn lights that never fade,
never fall, never bud. They linger,
as children tramp in foam around their roots.
The sun moves into eclipse, into shadow.
Twilight for the day, twilight for the age,
evening for the walkers at dawn.
These days are done, but as thought
they still linger amid the woven grass
like crickets in the fading blossoms.
Their melody smites the heart with
such sorrow, the world runs with
brooks down its cheeks forever.
World-weary hearts hand in hand on the brink;
there is one doom that encompasses all.
We can only go to meet it, or
weather and crack as works in glory
crumbling after years of strength in the end,
at the end when all shall break.
Too long have we been here, as we see
stone conquer leaf, metal grind wood into
fuel for the unquenching fire that roams
these worlds battle-raged.
Battles come and go, but the war ends not.
Is there no garden to rest in?
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