Because of extremely positive reactions to my poem “The Lament for Fingolfin” I have decided to post another poem.
I think it not quite as good as the first one though. There are still some problems with metre and rhyme and I am not completely satisfied with the wording and hence it is still a work-in-progress (though near completion). Please tell me what you think (and especially what could be better).
Akallabêth, the Downfallen
For all the world lay shimmering
as glistening pillar glimmering
the white capped mountain ever tall
in elder days, before the fall.
The towers stood there glistening
in years of yore when listening
to speech and music seemed yet fair:
we were yet blissful unaware.
With ships we sailed on all the seas
where western wind brought us with ease.
All these but one we claimed our own
and laid before our golden throne.
Our banners waved there beckoning
beyond the years of reckoning
when proud we were and sailing free
looked out over the starlit sea.
And yet we were still not at peace
our splendour we could not release
when at long last our bodies frail
and all of heaven’s stars seemed pale.
Our yearning hearts still not at ease,
though weariness did never cease,
we fought against the final end
and doing so did condescend.
Until at last the fighting done,
the faithless battle never won.
Yet many would still try again:
thus poisoned was the Gift of Men.
And in this time it came to be
when darkling armies made to flee,
their leader captured and brought back,
he turned our fearful hearts to black.
He fed us with deceit and lies
which he did cunningly disguise.
And over the forbidden foam
we sailed unto the Elvenhome.
Great was the wrath which was unleashed
and deep the deep into which leeched;
the island which was ever fair
was lost with all those unaware.
And never more we saw the light
which shone there ever long and bright
which once was blessed with greatest bless
in Númenor, in Westernesse.
But in a noon of golden light
or by the glare of moon at night
look out across the Sund’ring Seas
and you will see, beyond the breeze
the mountain which shone once so bright
as any star that in the night
lit up its hallow head so round:
Meneltarma, the holy mount.