Rivers of fire at the dead of night,
In winter lying cold and white,
Bespoke the calm upon the land,
That soon will break with sword in hand.
From castle walls they saw the fire,
That seemed to leap from spire to spire,
The flames that rose to sky so vast,
That towered over empires past.
When trumpet sang both long and loud,
And challenge rang unto the clouds,
To hear the heavens' clarion ring,
Music that bids the spirit to sing.
And so the hordes came marching out,
from Mordor, land of eastern south,
The Orcs on wolves with fangs uncurled,
Black standards in their hands unfurled.
And high above, the Nazgul ride,
On wings of black and polished hide,
With Angmar in his armor bold,
To bring with him dead Morgoth's cold.
Mirdautas Vras! They shout and call,
The words that reach Osgiliath's halls,
While earth and black soil shudder still,
And ground is soaked with bloodied kill.
Might and glory for changing dawn,
Power revealed in ancient thorn,
Clear and cold and shining far,
As Man falls down like dying star.
Originally Posted On Site: 2008-07-04 15:54:53
Last Login: 07.04.08
Visits as of 12-12-07: 132
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