You shout the command.
In a trail of sparks, the torch is thrown,
And light flares on the courses of stone
raised from the flood by the craft of Numenor.
Breathing out the black stench of pitch,
The flames blot out the very dome of stars.
Down the rope you go, hand over hand,
Sliding down to the river’s black surface.
So begins the final retreat.
Followed by Boromir, you swim away from the fire’s light,
Away from the gaze of enemy archers.
With the crack and heavy slide of stone
the last bridge burns and falls into ruin.top