Death of Imladris

Imladris is forsaken by all but the fading leaves.
The whispers on the wind are the musings of minstrels,
Who sing of shining hauberks and ruined greaves.
Lights from the stars pool upon the stone,
As silver mead spilling from the heavens
Or tears splashing against sun bleached bone.
The battlefield rages with the sentry of the night.
Hope clashing with despair as dancing shadows,
Two great hosts to die upon the dawn's first light.
Rivendell, this homely house, is slain by every morn.
All those dreams, visions, recollections of yore
Slip away with daybreak as if they were never borne.