Wild flung arrows slice through night
-From bows of yew and elm.
Oily darkness hid from light;
-A mighty captain’s helm.
Evil permeates the air;
-Warm blood freezes cold.
Endless power from black crown,
-And yet strong stands the fierce and old.
Ever vigilant he stands;
– His great hyperbole
For in not so distant lands
-Comes hope from o’er the sea.
Lonesome wanderer is he
-Who knows tomorrow now.
Mithrandir, his ancient eyes
-Shine brilliant past his murky brow.
Great Kings slain like commoners
-While commoners are kings.
Dark Lord and his followers
-And all-powerful rings.
Nine loose purpose without one,
-One with fire engraven;
The battle won, the tasks are done,
-He turns his eyes now toward Grey Havens.
Requiems play the third age,
-Its dusk lost in the night.
Turning page, he steps off stage
-In once gray cloaks now white.
Middle Earth weeps subtly,
-Her tears as rain along the shore.
Watching longingly as he
-Dip o’er horizon: nevermore.