From mountain peaks, so high and misty,
where none save eagle eyes could see,
flowed sharp and swift the silver stream.
It journeyed far, always without rest,
for countless days and nights it cried,
of olden days when all was strewn with light.
On and on it fled, to lands so far away,
where blowing cattails whispered soft,
of elfin maidens and heroes lost.
Over rock and pebble, and raging fall,
pass darkened wood and rolling barrow,
and ruined castles filled with sorrow.
Creatures big and small, it watched unseen,
orcs and elves and dwarves that sang of home,
in torch lit halls of chiseled stone.
The ages bloomed, and withered away,
as below the stars it cried alone,
for of its sorrow none would know.
Oh silver stream, with your tears so bright,
flying to the sea and lands beyond,
where dreams frogotten live on and on.