A boy’s book, Estel’s
book,
Beautifully
bound in soft green linen.
A labor of love, by his hand
written, Lovingly laid out in
lithe Elven letters,
His thoughtful Ada taught him.
Thus Elrond
sought to school his son,
Young Estel, well.
Yet youth that he was,
Estel knew not
His origin true, at Elrond’s rede.
Estel wrote of Beren and Lúthien,
His far
distant forbears,
While I in Wilderland wandered,
For
Erebor ever searching.
Estel labored mightily,
While
wondering where I might be.
He gave me this book, a gift,
As a goodly
gesture of great hope
That I would not forget him,
A token of his
true trust and love.
Through the tale of long years,
This book have I treasured
Above all else: the greatest gift
That Elf-like
Estel gave me,
Besides his bountiful, blessed love,
Bringing boundless hope to
me.
Now my winter comes,
And I the whale-road shall seek,
To soothe my soul,
And seek my
long-sought peace
In Valinor, in Elvenhome,
Where worry waits not,
And time thrusts grief aside,
Till all the
world is mended.
Now sits the boy in Gondor,
A beardless
man
5
ever-gazing northward,
To the lands of his fathers.
He thinks of
me, I know.
I would like Estel’s work for me,
Willingly written that winter long gone,
To straitly stay in Middle-Earth.
When Aragorn work-wearied becomes, and
Seeks Ilúvatar’s
6
soothing spirit,
His book will bring
bright cheer
To those who toil tirelessly
Soft solace
ever seeking on this Middle-earth.