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:: The Balad of Toren Isa :: :: The Forgotten :: :: The End of the Beginning :: :: Untitled :: :: Sorrow :: :: The Forgotten Ones :: :: From the Eye of the Palantir :: :: Music :: :: Night Moves :: :: A Bardic Tale ::



by Allandra Shadowfax


Round a corner quite dim

From history, 'tis wrought

Flam'd embers of memory

Of an empire once sought.

Sole left, the remains,

Of some once kingly blades;

Resting rusted in halls:

One dirk; an old maul.


With capes cloaked in dust,

Upon finely carved thrones

Perch the shadows of kings

Wearing now dull'ed stones.

In one hallowed hall,

Fine tapestry-filled,

Linger songs of the ages:

A nightingale's trill.


Oh, woe, for the night

When the battles were fought;

When silver clashed silver

And shields held for nought.

The flash of a scimitar

On great fields of snow

As arrows and flame-throw'rs

Sped forth from each bow.


Where brave men stood tall,

Breathing ice at their foes,

Clutching scabbard and hilt,

Huddled shoulders 'gainst blows.

Oh, hear loud the shouts,

Ten thousand voice-howls,

The thunder of boots

And the sight of men's scowls.


For kingdoms and empires

Grow, waver, and fall;

Time passes for all men,

Both mighty, and small.

And once, by a chance,

In great halls of cut glass

You may stumble upon them,

Hear murmurs long-past.


Bow low, and remember,

With hushed honor grave,

The deeds of the worthy,

The glory of the brave.

For one day, some traveller,

Heart-weary, bone-tired,

May happen upon ye,

Your crown......likewise mired........