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Antique Lyrics of Arda

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Walküre:
I tell you, it was a land of arts and skills


Nay, I can't believe your words. All that my eyes see is lone shires and lands without rulers whom I might know. Solitary and wild. No fortress or settlement of some note. There is naught and none. Only spoils, in truth, of past kings who by the gentle touch of luck were not reached. Miserable spectacle, I say.

Man, dear mortal soul whose sight is hard to widen, if it's ruins what you consider poor and miserable, your eyes have been certainly bewitched. Ruins in fact speak much for the ear that is willing to listen. Grand craftsmen dwelt here and of their labours the whole world was full, made rich and content a good deal. Bonds were established and long friendships blossomed even between one-time hostile races. It was all a marvellous laboratory of the most ingenious minds, among whom a proud smith shone. He was of the immortal kind and was also said to be one of those cursed by the exile from the bliss that was. The stain of infamy was washed away and their rebellion pardoned. He did not intend to forsake this land, though. Much he loved mending flaws and the grave wounds of Middle-earth he thought he was able to cure. Alas, sham words of counsel were given to him. A cunning guest in search of help and vassals to whom give orders. He was the mind and the smith the hands. Artefacts of extraordinary power saw light, then. They could halt decay and the capabilities of their bearers make mightier as never before. These scattered pieces of generosity were, however, part of a sole thread. Fell scheme of lies and snares...

Walküre:
The purpose of my roaming


My wandering has a reason which is the clearest thing for me; the centre of all and its very sense too. I know how some might question my constant travelling. They say it's not worth it. They say that mankind does not deserve such gift; aid in what seems to resemble an age boding ill. I ride still, though, facing odds, voyaging hither and thither throughout a world that asks for help. Voices of pain and grief I always listen to. Mercy and piety I deem supreme and the most honourable of the virtues. And power I see with suspicion; power which subdues, strangles liberty and flowers makes wither. Much contempt I have for such definition of power. For power is subtler in nature; it requires wit. Simple acts of kindness and love keep this earth warm, and comfortable. It is love what kindles and valour inspires. A flame which needs be nourished. And a feeble fire must be preserved from stormy weather, so that goodness has its place in the order of all. Should victory bless our utmost mission, it is to depend on the hands of the weak one. Weak only in the eyes of whom does not understand.

Walküre:
The Forest itself


Shepherd of trees. It is told that trees have found firm guidance among the mysterious paths of their old wood, which lies near the Ring of Isengard. A power beneath grass and fallen leaves. Hard to fathom and ever-lively, unbeknownst to common knowledge. One should refrain from journeying throughout those obscure ways, of which we know little or naught. Den of far memories. Emotions of diverse sort. Who could know whether trees would rather elect peace or wrath? Much they have endured in a world that to them does not pay attention or modest reverence. Aren't they perhaps not worthy of note? This I cannot believe. Fool the one who's alien to green things; blinded their eyes were and his conscience clouded by other disgraceful thoughts. The old manners of gentleness may still be forgotten, albeit said vital force being continuously stored and preserved, although trees prefer silence and motionless they seem. Their guide is ever-awake, though. No deception or crime he is to concede. Adamant temper, wooden fashion of long years passed at the edge, vigilant surveillance, unceasing wisdom and vivid beard. No mere tree is he! Mightier in truth than one might deem. He's the Forest itself, its life and very soul.

Walküre:
Smith, the ways of Aman thou hast made dirty!


Smith, the ways of Aman thou hast made dirty in fury beyond thinking,
Immortal and noble, thou art given never-ending life by the One, yet through the path of grave expiation thou wilt travel,
Just outcome for thy doing without measure or shame,
Thou longest to reclaim what to thee hath since its creation belonged.

Who shall dare be in the way of such fiery vengeance, burning in perpetuity, for new nourishment it needeth?
The Protected Realm had never beheld anything of that ilk,
Grievous reminiscences they are to be,
Past harbours of merriment and peaceful chants, the fruit of their labour mariners did not want to give up to arrogant demanding, and so death spread and howls of terror within the continent of the Powers, which are ominous presaging of what future is to bring.

Walküre:
Mercy, history it has saved


Noblest kind of descent, the most splendid bloodline flowed in their veins,
Young they were, awaiting their definitive doom, grey and somber as when it rains,
The House of the Smith was in no way content with their broad dominion, reclaiming one of the Jewels of ancestral light,
Mercy triumphed at the grimmest time, the Twins were spared and piety worked for the avoidance of plight.

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