From Vingilot

by Oct 6, 2004Poetry


By Valars’ grace once more I set Vingilot on Arda’s face


upon the skies I have kept watch


from the War of Wrath until the Current Age,


lighting the nights by the Silmaril


that acts as a palantir of time.


Thus all the Ages lie before my eyes.


all remade is Arda Marred,


redeemed and marred again.


Though faded now are all the Eldar,


half-Elven, I perceive them yet.


Near spent is the blood of Númenor


yet I see it in the faces of my offspring.


 


O, Círdan, you are from the Havens gone,


 



 


where  in older days we wrought together Vingilot.


Of the first of the Firstborn at Cuiviénen awakened,


your promise to the Valar kept


crafting each ship and biding time


until the last of the Elder race


set sail the Straight Road to Tirion,


you cast off at last for Elven-home.


 


And too, upon the shore lies ruined Vinyalondë,



once the port of Aldarion,


by the Haradrim thrown to dust.


Here the remains of Vinyamar on Nevrast’s shore,



 


where Turgon left helm and sword, shield and hauberk


that in later days Tuor, my sire, bore to Gondolin.



In the fulfillment of  Ulmo’s words:


“Remember that the last hope of the Noldor


cometh from the sea.”


to this mountain fastness that hid Gondolin the Fair he came.



And, in the end, at Cristhorn fell Glorfindel of the Golden Flower,


 Balrog slewing and slain.


 


Off the western shore, the Isle of Balar



where Círdan sheltered the remant of Falathrim


after the Unnumbered Tears.


The Ages pass before my eyes:


the voyage to Valinor, the slaying of Ancalgon,


those were the days of Valars’ Wrath.


And Men voyage to Numenor,


Andor, the Gift of the Valar to the Dúnedain,



led there by Elros my son


Who took mortality to be the king of Men.


 


In another Age before the Seas were bent.


to  Imladris came Elrond and made a home


where the mountains are cloven by Bruinen’s stream.



And where are Elladan and Elrohir,


riding the roads of Rivendell?



 


Here lies the Shire with fields of sheep,


patchy crop along the lane


 



 


High is the line of Hithaeglir,


Fanuidhol, the Cloudyhead,



called Reachtain Mhòr in Current Age.


Silvertine shines in the sun,


in dwarrow tongue named Zirakizigil’


to the Eldar known as Celebdil the White.


Caradhras the cruel, the Redhorn cloaked in snow


dazzles against the darkening sky.


Moria, the Dwarrowdelf,



here the Dwarves woke Durin’s Bane


which banished them from Khazad-Dûm.


 


Taller than the eye can compass


the mellyrn are rooted deeply into the earth,



fairest of trees, they crown Caras Galadon,


in Laurelindórenan, the Golden Wood,


bright realm of Celeborn and Galadriel.


 


Wide are the plains of Rohan,



stretching eastward from this gap.



 


Ah, Legolas, the gulls still cry on the shore.


 



even in Ithilien you heard their voice,


and slipped your ties from the green leaves,


to sail to Elven-home beyond the Sea.


 


                                                       Gil-Estel



 


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