by Jun 15, 2004Poetry

I ride into battle,
On the back of the cattle,
Death is my call,
Call before my fall.

The men with white eyes,
Their tongues red as blood,
Their tellings are all a lye,
The bodies covered in mud.

The creatures of the dark lord,
send up his mighty hoard,
against the city of White Stone,
The great city,
yet ’tis not my home.

Giants with great tusks,
towers of death on their backs,
they come at the break of dusk,
the armies they easily hack.

Our steeds scream in fright,
It is as if someone killed the light,
The foul bird of death,
Is only what I can guess.

He throws my bane in fury,
digs in his black claws,
Into the stomach of my horse,
The black sword he draws.

Yet a warrior comes in my midst,
the dark beast she kills,
Yet the Witch-King has not been hit,
he is as black as the smoke of 1,000 mills.

The warrior is a woman,
My niece, that is she,
she alone as a footman,
Yet she doesn’t know the powere of thee.

The black one screams,
Screams as steam,
Steam rises from his back,
his power has been lacked.

he crumbles to the ground,
He has been killed,
Killed and he is down,
The ground has been hilled.

I see the sun,
The roar of the seas,
the green lands of Aman,
Eru has taken me.

I see my forefathers,
My grand-fathers of old,
yet them I do not bother,
For I look upon the city that is bold.

I see the battle raging,
the sun coming up,
For I have lied about death because of aging,
now I see that is more,
More than much.


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Found in Home 5 Reading Room 5 Poetry 5 Death

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