Eternal days are passing. Timed days of
men and elves are gone. Days of glorious man,
walking with high heads; Living between nature and industry.
Living beyond survival, living to create
(Having a talent to blend creation and destruction)
days as these are gone. Such is the way of man;
growing as the sun rises, feeding yet dehydrating
and destroying. Eternity watched from the wings lending hands,
hearts and lessons. Alas the eternal fight again, for glory restored;
men and elves fight; one last fight before leaving to legend.
Fight to lift men from the meager place they wallow.
By and large they fight for the hope.
Amidst the chaotic cloud of battle retried is in the air
(not fated to be the last) the hope of another day,
the hope of eternal life shattered with the swing of a blade.
Eyes open wide to find its last memory
(thus sees things normally not noticed)
before closing forever. But to see enemies lay side by side,
how holy blood does coalesce with cursed black blood
of Mordor. An elven death is eternal. Time is forfeit,
sacrificed so that man may hope.
(Yet, if it all stops at hope, what was the point?)