Hail! Noble traveler, I pray, take heed.
For if perchance you will read
my words of rhyme, you are too kind,
and I merely ask you keep in mind…
In the dark of night was this verse penned
by trembling hand no leech could mend
of a dream that woke me from my bed.
Thus if you feel you are misled
by my words, then you must know
that the world I shall show
was carved not by Eru’s hand
but forged in my own dreamland.
So if unreal my tale may seem,
take to heart…it’s just a dream.
I sat in my den, like a silent wren,
dreaming of lands never born.
Of battles fought there, in dark dragon’s lair
beneath the eaves of Fangorn.
I find that I stand, with bright sword in hand,
and a fell light in mÿ eye,
while outside the doors a fierce battle roars.
So I shout a great war cry
and leap in the fray, this goes on all day,
but blood runs like fire in mÿ viens.
Still Trolls keep attacking, and villiages sacking,
and the spoils fill many wains.
And Orcs from the North come riding forth
on wolves, as though they were steeds.
We fear that this bout shall turn to a rout
and Orcs on our bones shall feed.
With two score and five, no more left alive,
we rally to make our last stand.
The dusk light is dim, our faces are grim,
we know our Doom is at hand.
When out from the East, like a battle beast,
we hear a great trumpet call.
And to the surprise of our weary eyes
our enemys cower and fall.
For an Elven-host, with ten score to boast!
has come from the wood of Fangorn.
Yes they are well led, and who is there head?
but the great Lord Celeborn.
Still we’re outnumbered, and the Trolls who plundered
laugh at us with great glee,
"Here comes a small band from an elven-land
and now you expect us to flee?"
I nudge a near friend, and say through a grin
"Tis the skill that matters to me."
Said he with a snort, "Then let’s make this short,
my fields should be tended by three."
And so back-to-back, we press our attack,
soon all of our foes have turned tale.
The Orcs have all fled, the Trolls are all dead,
and the wolves let out a long wail.
With notched sword in sheath, and a crown of heath,
I approach the Lord Celeborn.
He gives me a staff, and ell and a half
in length, of ebony shorn.
He says that this token shall never be broken
‘till the mountains crumble and fall,
and if we have need, then with all good speed,
he will answer our beck and call.
I bow to the floor, but then, from the Door,
a minstrel sings a refrain.
I raise up mÿ eyes, and to my surprise,
I’m lying in my den again.
It seems I’ve been dreaming, although it was seeming
as no dream, still, morning is nigh.
A wren is its herald, it knows not its peril,
it was he, who opened my eye.
I rise from my chair, and I am aware,
that something isn’t quite right.
My hand holds a staff, an ell and a half,
the colour of darkest night.
