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Antique Lyrics of Arda

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Walküre:
The government of dread


Fools! You, how dare you question the grip of the Stewards of Gondor? I see many minds may have fallen prey to the vain parlance of those annoying wizards. One, in particular; a harbinger of ill news and much apprehension, which is at large unneeded and unwanted! This parlance of treacherous intentions and precise goals. I know what you crave, Grey Wizard. I know on whom your eyes are currently set. That miserable ranger of the North, crept out from silence and from the ignorance along those far countries. Far from us, far from the real suffering and fighting of ours, my people. You ought not to pay attention to these tales, being spread with cunning ends. It is your Steward that you must trust. The one who has always stood beside you, in good or bad luck. And we shall go through these times of unrest. We shall not be conquered by the lies of those deceptive wanderers. Men are still strong and within us lies the right spirit to turn the tide in our favour, against those sham prophecies that want us to beg for outer help, on our knees.

Yes, we do have troubles to cope with. Yet, isn't this the existence of anxious awaiting that we are all living? Staggering behind the hard walls of our defence is no flaw. It is my government of dread. Doubting everyone else and especially the ones travelling back and forth, bearing the unpleasant will to stir discord and bitter resentment. No, I say; the ranks of Gondor will not be wasted anymore, just to appease the multicoloured fantasies of such woeful emissaries.

Walküre:
We forced him to head out from his lair


Dwellers of the burnt lake, used to sailing and trading your goods of value, the bell tolled during that night, during the hell of fire, borne through the skies via wings and horrible claws, and time is up for your kind to wield the sword and fight for life,
Miners, laborious and ever-busy in the forge of your ample halls, your ancient kingdom you have got back and won again, now ready to serve another splendid lineage of your tough kin, although greed haunts your success still, leading you all to unfriendly acts towards the other characters of the story,
Elven king, riding the might of your green forest that much extends its branches over the broad East, imperative is for you the task of retrieving the old treasure which to your past belongs, being those remote days well over and buried by the incessant pace of time, if not in the memory of the Eldar, made of what the world had been too made,
Now, people of valour, put aside the lesser differences that for too long have divided your paths, for storm is coming, carried by fell winds of a renewed evil, which hitherto has rested in disguise and hidden in its lair, but we forced him to head out and reveal its malicious plans, and these are wicked propositions that the sole unity might hinder and fend off in definitive manner.

Walküre:
The unanswered plea


Where was the helping hand of Gondor, in the hour of massacre?
Long had we been sending heartfelt pleas,
Comprised of our struggle, among the fumes of that fell industry,
Machines vomiting steam and deadly gifts,
The gifts of twisted science and a deeply corrupt soul,
While the broad woods nearby combated those flames,
The hay and residence of our people were raided, and they burned too,
Being extinguished in the deplorable manner of those old trees,
We asked that the allegiance be honoured and truly fulfilled,
But our plea of sorrow remained unanswered, alas, as the thick shadow prepared to cast its sombre night on all Men breathing on earth.

Walküre:
Grand as his pride, ruinous as his fate


Proud King, you were the last ruler of the Island to be recalled,
Power you seized and your implacable longing the course of the story was to mould,
Great laments we sing nowadays, for whom committed the worst crime, causing the whole Arda to mourn,
And great contempt you stir also, being your plan the advice of a demon, whose prisoner you had eventually become, betrayed and forlorn.

The greatest fleet you had sent to inexorable doom,
Approaching the twilight of your reign, plagued by storm and gloom,
On your mighty ship, you were subjugated by folly, at the eventual state,
A grand vessel on the surface of the blue, grand as your pride and ruinous as your fate.

Walküre:
Take this token and better it for the good


Future king, here is the realm I have bequeathed,
As near kingdoms of old were bent by the ruthless passing of sheer time and withered,
Take this token and better it for the good,
Beyond the maze of fortune and the wavering seas of human mood.

Gaze afar and give up fear,
It is not the crown of some monarch of old, forgotten and mere,
The keys of the White City you shall get and in the name of Gondor you will rule all,
Be your domain resilient enough, needing the world a watchful sentinel and an adamant wall.

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