Of Turin Turambar - A poem about the Doom-master

Of old many names he was called,
the Black Sword, fearless and bold.
Many a deed of valour from him forth shone,
yet in his own darkness he walked alone,
for cursed was every step he ever made,
but even weary, he wasn't stayed.
And when all that was bad seemed to come to an end,
to a Maiden beautiful, yet sad he gave his hand.
But even with the Master of Fate
the curse of Evil caught up,
it was too late,
his gate to heaven was shut.
He slew the Dragon and became renowned,
but he heeded it not,
for the love of his heart, his sister, had drowned.
On his black sword, by his own hand,
the Master of Doom met his end,
for even by a dwarven mask he couldn't be saved
from the dark doom that on his kin was layed.
But one day Neitan will walk again,
cured of all wounds and of pain
and at the Final end, in the Last Battle
again his voice will ring and his sword rattle,
and he shall slay with his mighty hand
the Dark Lord that once cursed his life,
his kindred and his land!


Sorry about any spelling mistakes... I didn't have time, nor the nervs to check...

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