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Antique Lyrics of Arda

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Walküre:
Necklace of stars


Gifted were the superb jewels of Aulë to the Queen of the sacred realm of the Powers, stainless and without woe,
A homage of immense magnitude, originated from the dauntless labouring of the mightiest Smith,
A necklace of pure diamond it was, but also carved into uncanny stone, which weather may not touch or cause to become dust,
Every gem was akin to her holy lamps in the night, and her inner radiance made them lit of ancestral beauty, nowhere to be found but at the sight of Varda Snow-white.

Walküre:
Fulfilment of sworn duty


Just release of those caged in living death,
The worst curse one might stumble upon,
Ill consequence of crime, dishonour and impious conduct of the vilest nature,
Yet, the captives, the half-dead, found redemption in the hour of most stringent necessity, aiding their allies and avoiding tragic defeat, as they made for the deadliest foe the Evil had thitherto been bound to face, cancelling the past stain of infamy and treason that had been their unbearable prison.

Walküre:
Visage of divine grace


Your thought is not to be fathomed by none else but the monarch who beside you sits on his godly throne,
Visage of miracle, whose sight the deepest hall of the outer space may with ease pierce, whither very few were bidden to voyage through as foremost task,
Complexion of the very resemblance of our starred heavens above all that is ether we breath,
Sanctity of old and even before, immortal and pure, naught has dared taint it and never shall the Evil lay hand on her prodigy, which is heart of light and giver of hope.

Walküre:
Too much to mend

In the perspective of Sam.


Lady, my honest word is that by your mighty magic the One Ring ought to be borne,
For hatred is being spread fast and swift in this world, and war and ill judgements leave too much which need be mended,
Well, there's naught that might be heavy burden for the Elven Queen of the golden woods,
Anything wrong you shall make right and evil doing would be given just retribution for the case.

Walküre:
Nice manners


The art of fine manners is treasure that is not for all to grasp,
Gentleness might melt hearts of iron and adamant temper,
Tender parlance sways minds and much is to yield,
At wit's end, when one's fate bodes ill,
Some are masters of solemn words of might,
Which they speak and so the secrets of the world command,
Words of power, yet terrible and lapidary as the bolt in the night,
Nice manners may conceal your real plan, instead, toying with an enemy of no usual comparison, that could either be creeping shadow in the pits of perilous mountains, a greedy serpent sat on gold or sheer madness of a brave king of old.

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