The wind over the mountain whistling
The dwarves sit in their halls of stone
Their hearts are colder than the mountain peaks
Colder, colder, to the bone.
“Our fingers long for work of ours!”
Their voices cry with the wind.
“Give us back what belongs to us!”
Their grief beyond any other’s ken.
No care for trees, nor care for sky
No care for other moving things

Just let them have the work of their hands

The crowns and jewelry fit for kings.

Their love is silver, bright, bright stones

And blood of the mountains, fiery gold

They wish to sit and hammer away

Shaping things soullessly cold.

The evil bane of love and laughter

Tightens the grip on the shapers of stone

Greed and hunger for riches eternal

Holds them tightly without a groan

Though for their work men have fought

The dwarves’ love is only for it

The work of their hands, the silver and gold

And evil tightened its foul grip.

There came a force the dwarves couldn’t defeat

Their weapons lay useless on the cold-stone floor

Still held by awe of their own handiwork

The dwarves didn’t hear the beat on the door.

Had they praised the Giver of their Gifts

Goellen, Mountain-Maker of fame

Their hearts would have been steeled against this fate

But evil overcame, greed, the dwarvish bane.

copyright 2008 by Magical Ink (magical-ink.blogspot.com)