Plague

Weeds run rampant, fields bare,

Such is the plague's swift course.

Striking Rhûn within its heart,

Without pity or remorse.

...

Roads exist untravelled,

The sun sets over dust.

Wooden structures decompose,

Metal turns to rust.

...

Aulë's moon's in mourning,

And his sun gives no relief.

But the plague's not run its course,

As it spreads out from the east.

...

The plague reaches Osgiliath,

Its river fills with dead.

The rulers of the West watch on,

Their hearts are filled with dread.

...

From Gondor to Minhiriath,

To Rhovanion.

People die and children cry,

Men reduced to carrion.

...

Eventually the plague burns out,

But it leaves its mark.

Eventually the dawn will come,

But long will be the dark.