Author's Note: I was reading over some pastoral poems and the idealized country life reminded me a lot of the Shire, so I decided to write my own featuring our dear Hobbits at not such a dear time. This is about the Scouring of the Shire. Of course, everything belongs to the God of fantasy know as Tolkien.
A Land Now Dead
A prophecy thou did once speak
From across plain and over peak
Of a land I dreamed I would see
Before I came to speak with thee.
But such are things that we call fate
That tarry our hopes into wait
And trample on our deep desires,
More so as the time expires.
Word comes of a man of great sway
Who flew from Orthanc straight away,
Escaping justice to green land
And broke the earth within his hand.
The people now made into slaves
Weep over growing rock that paves
On top of once flourishing fields,
As easy as the sun that yields.
For now a darkness covers hence;
Dusty cloud ruling no expense.
Creatures roam the smoldering ash,
The Uruk-hai with whips that lash.
A pity of the most extremes
Hath filled my heart, or so it seems.
Much can I speak of tragedy,
With a promise I'll make to thee:
A darkest hour can find the sun.
But there is much to be undone
To clear the industry of sin
Before a new life can begin.