In burning stars at an even sunset above a quiet sleeping floss,
I saw the shadows that were skimming on stones of spectral vague alleys
And sang for me in Sindarin their ballads with the mournful voice.
The world was dying. And as farewell, in autumn forests snow melted,
At mounts of the winged manhood white sparking floods fell down and crashed,
And First Great Song was nearly finished, and Gods have heard the answer said,
The End was near. All that's remained, were only ages. Not more than ages