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Antique Lyrics of Arda

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Walküre:
A Hue of Sadness


A hue of sadness for the final tale, as a word of caution for the wise listener of these words,
In the midst of jubilation and joy for the victory of whom for liberty had fought, one the other facet of reality should not indeed ignore,
For Men may rejoice at their triumph and at the reunited kingdom which newly light saw,
But the Elven kind knew very well what many for long time had been in silence murmuring,

That the Immortals' staying on the continent without a price was not, a toll which even victory demanded,
Waning and slow decay the Eldar would have awaited,
Alongside their splendid arts perishing, with their resilient realms under the trees or in the valley being doomed to follow the path of vanishing,
In tears, dismay and profound sorrow for the bitter conclusion,

Therefore, the Eldar of noble lineage thus the way of departure were ready to tread,
The Lady had left her realm and under the stars of the night through fields and plains she had ridden, wearing Nenya on her finger, depleted yet bright still in the absence of light,
As well as the Lord of the homely shelter beside the mountains, willing to be finally parted from the World and his love beyond the sea again to behold,
Weary and in sad sacredness, silent they journeyed to the Havens and from Middle-earth for the eternal bliss they eventually sailed.

Walküre:
Relief and comfort within the stone


In centuries these ramparts and hard walls of stone have been our sole defence,
For us, loose and often lone people of the desolate heath,
But also proud and much used to the harsh existence and of winter the crude touch,
Free we have always ridden, naught our path opposing, nor did our horses ever fail our command, fast and smooth across the fields,

In times, however, great necessity made it so that the defence of walls we had to use,
To fend off invasions and of aggressive hordes to halt the violent impetus,
The indomitable Horse Lords shall thus rely on their last bastion, pillars of the realm and for Middle-earth as a whole,
It is here, let us pray, that the arts of the treachery wizard shall find the bravest opponent, hoping that other auxiliaries might come for our aid, by the wise counsel of another mage guided.

Walküre:
The Plea

Eärendil begs the Powers to intervene.


Powers, mighty and fallacious in no case, ye should head thither and end of our pain the old root,
The venom that always the green garden of Arda hath poisoned and marred,
Both kinds request your coming at the last hour for the Light,
Lest the whole continent sink and drown in the abyss of darkness, erasing love, memory and gentleness of noble kind, which is the mysterious flame that all nourisheth and from mournful withering preventeth.

Walküre:
The Uncanny Gift


How could death ever be named a gift? The parting of your spirit and the profound grief of whom shall remain behind,
A curse it instead seems to be, plaguing mankind since the ancestral time,
As if the snares of the Evil were not enough, with violence, brutal force and terrible slaughter of an unspeakable kind,
Yet the Eldar insist, that the fortune of our being at the last moment we shall grasp, when our breath of life the ramparts of Eä leave, to the mysterious destination in glory headed.

Walküre:
Woes to whom forsweareth their judgement


Woes to whom forsweareth their judgment, of the Powers who beyond the sea shall forever endure,
Their wisdom by the common standards may not be measured, being their nature holy and their will wholly pure.

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