1. Tears for the Fallen
He rages against the West:
Stone-hard wrath batters adamantine walls
Piled high by the pleasance where
His kin dally and plot.
Wreathed round his brow
A hell-wrought storm fumes,
But a breath of wind blows across the sky
Rending the wrack through which
Golden light glimmers and falls fair upon black boots.
He stays his iron hand
And does not mend torn clouds
But lets Anar's light play
Upon the tortured earth before him.
Bending with the might of mountains,
He kneels and stares over the precipice of knees,
Where writhing in the ground before him
Green shoots struggle in shriveled soil, reaching for the Sun.
He watches and he listens, the first time in eons
He has considered a thing so small.
The leaves unfurl in silence,
But soon they sing with faint melody
Taking him back to the Origo
That set all in motion.
To the Beginning: one spark that gave birth
To stars, to worlds and to him.
The leaf-song swells strong
Sipping jewels of light, gifts from Anar,
Weaving the Sun into its substance,
Wheeling with the spiral dance of life.
He seizes the sorrow provoked by hopeful song,
Seeking its subjugation,
But his will cannot prevail
Against bitter loss.
One tear falls and then another;
Across hardened cheeks they track.
Upon green growth the wretched dew falls,
And distilled regret makes fertile the fallow.
White bells bloom on the touch of his tears,
And he hears their chimes,
Calling for him to come home.
He wavers, but shakes off weakness.
For is he not Melkor, true ruler of Arda, he who arises in might?
He crushes sweet flowers beneath one foul foot,
Ground back into the earth whence they came.
But hope does not die so easily.
After mountains tumble and seas devour,
And the earth is cleansed,
White bells bloom again in the spring:
Tears for the fallen.