I sit with pen and ink in hand,
Before me, pages white;
My mind is filled with visions grand
As I begin to write.

My thoughts depart my cluttered floor
And leave my earthly home,
And take instead to wond’ring o’er
The places legends roam.

My eye now rich, deep beauty finds
In curling scripts, and tongue,
The kind devised by Elven minds
When Middle-Earth was young.

I hear the ring of pick and ax!
Beneath the mountain deep,
Before the evil one attacks;
While Sauron’s hoards still sleep.

I see the quiet, sturdy folk
Who dwell by Anduin,
The Harfoots, and the Stoors who soak
The river’s water in.

I also see the Greenwood’s shade
Where danced the Fallohides,
Who now, with sorrow, plans have made
To cross the mountainsides.

I see the Greenwood fill with mirk;
An evil shadow falls.
A menace haunts, and spiders lurk,
Outside the Wood Elves’ halls.

The Harfoots, Stoors, and Fallohides
Abandon hole, and roam
Until they come to mountainsides,
And cross, to find a home.

The Necromancer looks in vain;
He’s heard that It was here –
His source of power, the High King’s Bane,
Went down, to disappear.

Against such power, man can’t defend;
So Isildur, he fell.
Of Sméagol, and his nasty trend,
The records do not tell.

The legend of a man who fell,
Whose line will rule again –
The curling scripts of elves will tell
When legends reach their end.

The misty mountains blur, and fade,
As in my chair I lay;
This world is not completely made,
’Twill wait another day.

I get up from my desk, and then,
With pipe and staff in hand
I stroll outside, while I pretend
I’m in that distant land.