Banjoverse: The Full Epic
Adraefan: 1. Chorus I (The Beginning)
Awake, Arda, awake!
You see, You breathe, You give
life for all!
The lush-green grasses grow
the children are born
the races change develop evolve.
Fourteen Powers, fourteen Valar
guide the swaying winds and changing times.
All hail the blesséd Children of Ilúvatar!
Let Them move the world!
Let Them set the stage!
Fly fast now,
speed past the Years of the Trees, First Age, Second Age.
We care little for these long years
their seeds will fertilize other tales.
Take us, Valar-Gods, take us to the very edge of things!
Bring us to those days when the Ring was found
(but skip the part about Bilbo)
when all grew dark and terrible
and it seemed – for an instant, a brief flash of despair,
that all should be lost…
Of course, we had faith!
…even if the players did not.
And now show us our opening,
let us peek through the bushes and see it all,
(Entertain us if you can!)
tell of the mighty deeds of mortals and elves,
for only You, Valar-Gods, can bring us up
to the very point when everything changed
turned green black red and swirled away –
Yes! Yes! There they are!
(Where? Oh there! On Amon Hen,
right by the mossy statue under the elm-ash-oak tree
on that pleasant little patch of grass
called, what was it, Garth Palen? Pal Garthen?
Parth Galen!)
See them now!
Frodo: Ringbearer, good-good-good,
still with ten digits and handfuls of courage
always stout heart, resilient little hobbit.
The one who saved us all, bless him!
And now, followed quickly by another,
breathing hard,
Boromir: good-bad son of Gondor,
desperate defeated handsome heavyset with tissue-thin spirit.
He wants It!
Alas, Boromir, when will your heart grow stiff?
This is the act that dooms you.
And away with invisible-Frodo,
bring in the Uruk-hai,
let the fight begin!
We want violence! Blood, gore, lusting fury!
Yes, yes, that’s it! Ha ha! Make it hurt!
Wait.
Wise, vain, merciful, aggressive Valar-Gods,
halt the story now, at this very moment,
and give us time to think:
There is Boromir,
sword spinning
the Horn of Gondor at his lips,
standing inhaling waiting
(shielding defenseless Merry and Pippin)
and what do we think? We think:
Let him live!
Let the good-bad son of Gondor continue his song!
So give destiny a shake like a newly-pressed sheet,
and behold the twists that chance and the Powers of Arda
have devised…
You see, You breathe, You give
life for all!
The lush-green grasses grow
the children are born
the races change develop evolve.
Fourteen Powers, fourteen Valar
guide the swaying winds and changing times.
All hail the blesséd Children of Ilúvatar!
Let Them move the world!
Let Them set the stage!
Fly fast now,
speed past the Years of the Trees, First Age, Second Age.
We care little for these long years
their seeds will fertilize other tales.
Take us, Valar-Gods, take us to the very edge of things!
Bring us to those days when the Ring was found
(but skip the part about Bilbo)
when all grew dark and terrible
and it seemed – for an instant, a brief flash of despair,
that all should be lost…
Of course, we had faith!
…even if the players did not.
And now show us our opening,
let us peek through the bushes and see it all,
(Entertain us if you can!)
tell of the mighty deeds of mortals and elves,
for only You, Valar-Gods, can bring us up
to the very point when everything changed
turned green black red and swirled away –
Yes! Yes! There they are!
(Where? Oh there! On Amon Hen,
right by the mossy statue under the elm-ash-oak tree
on that pleasant little patch of grass
called, what was it, Garth Palen? Pal Garthen?
Parth Galen!)
See them now!
Frodo: Ringbearer, good-good-good,
still with ten digits and handfuls of courage
always stout heart, resilient little hobbit.
The one who saved us all, bless him!
And now, followed quickly by another,
breathing hard,
Boromir: good-bad son of Gondor,
desperate defeated handsome heavyset with tissue-thin spirit.
He wants It!
Alas, Boromir, when will your heart grow stiff?
This is the act that dooms you.
And away with invisible-Frodo,
bring in the Uruk-hai,
let the fight begin!
We want violence! Blood, gore, lusting fury!
Yes, yes, that’s it! Ha ha! Make it hurt!
Wait.
Wise, vain, merciful, aggressive Valar-Gods,
halt the story now, at this very moment,
and give us time to think:
There is Boromir,
sword spinning
the Horn of Gondor at his lips,
standing inhaling waiting
(shielding defenseless Merry and Pippin)
and what do we think? We think:
Let him live!
Let the good-bad son of Gondor continue his song!
So give destiny a shake like a newly-pressed sheet,
and behold the twists that chance and the Powers of Arda
have devised…
