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.
