Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings (although I wish I had JRR
Tolkien's talent) so please don't sue me.
***
Golden Leaves
My first memory of the golden woods of Lothlórien is as a child, the leaves like the gentle fall of sunlight as they break from the bough to make room for the new in the springtime.
I remember twirling beneath those golden leaves, those tiny pieces of touchable light, as they fell to cover my hair, my hands, my upturned face. I buried myself beneath piles of gold, beautiful as jewelry but light as a swan's feather. The leaves tickled me, as they worked beneath my clothing, and I laughed and laughed, not yet holding the dignity of the elves, my kindred. I was accounted a happy child.
Ai! For all my memories hold the love of the Golden Wood, Lórien, my home. What realm could be as beautiful to me as that, where first I felt the love of the land? I could sing a song for each of the stars in the sky of it, and not feel my mind run dry of melody. What woman could compare to the silver trunks and golden leaves of the mallorn trees, what voice raised in song could sound more beautiful than Nimrodel?
Yet my heart yearns for the sea, a sea I have never seen. I am told that the West is beautiful, lovelier than even Lothlórien. How could such compare to the Golden Wood? To me it is as a man who judges two beautiful women. How do I choose between my yearning for the sea, and my love of my home?
Ai, ai! For I must go. My kin leave now, and a grey ship waits to bear me hence. Namárië, Lothlórien, my golden home. I shall never again see your like.
***
Golden Leaves
My first memory of the golden woods of Lothlórien is as a child, the leaves like the gentle fall of sunlight as they break from the bough to make room for the new in the springtime.
I remember twirling beneath those golden leaves, those tiny pieces of touchable light, as they fell to cover my hair, my hands, my upturned face. I buried myself beneath piles of gold, beautiful as jewelry but light as a swan's feather. The leaves tickled me, as they worked beneath my clothing, and I laughed and laughed, not yet holding the dignity of the elves, my kindred. I was accounted a happy child.
Ai! For all my memories hold the love of the Golden Wood, Lórien, my home. What realm could be as beautiful to me as that, where first I felt the love of the land? I could sing a song for each of the stars in the sky of it, and not feel my mind run dry of melody. What woman could compare to the silver trunks and golden leaves of the mallorn trees, what voice raised in song could sound more beautiful than Nimrodel?
Yet my heart yearns for the sea, a sea I have never seen. I am told that the West is beautiful, lovelier than even Lothlórien. How could such compare to the Golden Wood? To me it is as a man who judges two beautiful women. How do I choose between my yearning for the sea, and my love of my home?
Ai, ai! For I must go. My kin leave now, and a grey ship waits to bear me hence. Namárië, Lothlórien, my golden home. I shall never again see your like.