Forging - A poem
a skillful craftsman, wielding power of old.
how slowly floats the sound of summer's sigh,
how slowly turns the creation past a masters eye.
with a trio bonded, a trio for his King,
three remain in Eriador, and no harm shall bring.
seven rose from forge flames, seven for afar,
seven for the stone halls, destined soon to part.
twilight fades the sunrays, a further set to call,
nine sent to mortal folk, nine shall later fall.
the crimson sunlight fades unto the moonlit night,
the Rings are forged, and sent upon their flight.
Mordor, dark place where darker forces cling,
a dark lord gazes, mind seeking Elven Rings.
the starlight his audience, the darkness his aide,
burns bright his forges, as elven forges fade.
One ring he forges, in fire binds its role,
weilding its power, the Rings shall then be whole.
In battle 'twas lost, and lost it shall stay,
until it is resurfaced, upon our darkest day.