The Return of the King

The cold of dawn
In the empty lands
Where no beast stirs but one.
A snow-white horse,
With a stern white rider,
Canters toward the sun.
This horse bears yet
Another rider
Small of size, not heart.
And before his eyes,
Though he sees it not,
The land they ride falls apart.

For once this land
Was governed with
A strong but easy hand.
But those times
Are long gone
In this misbegotten land.
The men once again
Grow restless
Of the steward which now rules.
The hand of a King
Is what's needed,
Ere the kingdom be ruled by fools.

So, fast these
Riders gallop,
The fate of the world at hand.
They bring to the men
The news of a King,
The rightful King of the land.
Whispers pass
From man to man,
"Is the true King finally come?
Will the Age of Darkness
Finally fall
To the mighty sword's deadly hum?"

The Shadow, it draws
Ever near,
Its fell breath at their door.
But, lo, who is come
On Rohan steed
Across the Gondorian moor?
Is it him?
Is it he?
The one of which rumors ring?
Is this truly the age
In which Darkness will fall
With the famed "Return of the King?"