by Firiel-(T)
May 15, 2011

Mourn not for me, but for the waning lone
Of many who endured the iron rod,
Who laboured prisoned in unhearing stone.
Now silent tread what legions once trod–
Ye know it well? Ye came but to the end,
We only, know, who bore the curse and sword;
Whilst ye were feasting in the halls of God,
We bent our knees before a harsher lord.
We knew the dark, and dark did lone befriend
The sons of men. Of Húrin do we sing
And of his son, that grievious sorrows, crushed.
Ye say you know our aching suffering,
But how, when it had barely on thee touched?
’Twas not the Noldor’s kindred helped us there,
The Gnomes alone of Eldar-race did fight
And where were ye? Where was the Valar’s might–
And where then was thy mighty Eldar-host?
Think not of me, O ye of Eldar-race,
Ye wanderers upon my faded shore,
O ye who visit now my Númenor,
But this: where through it was the Valar’s face?
And sorrow now to think of all the lost
Aside of me: what should I count to thee?
But lesson let me teach eternally.