Concept & character copyright J. R. R. Tolkien & The Tolkien Estate
The Last House
I am a hopeless prisoner,
With neither chain nor bind,
But held in bondage ne'theless,
Within my shrivelled mind.
About this dessicated flesh,
A withered, tangled skein.
I do not know how it may end,
Nor when it will begin.
In part I haunt the moonlight realm,
Not seen beneath the sun;
In part I dwell in dark demesne,
The whole of me in none.
There is no count of passing hours,
Just multitudes of days,
That never become months or years,
And so pass on their way.
The past is but a shadow-play,
That dances on the screen,
A swirling, black confusion of,
Lost lives that have not been.
And yet, I walk in shadow still,
Without the hope of peace.
There is no man in this world who
May grant me my release.
