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Antique Lyrics of Arda

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Walküre:
Blade of sun and moon


Blade of sun and moon,
Iron of prestige, to ruin immune,
Thou wast there, to avail the deed of the king,
Loyal among the western kind of Men, set to face the Tyrant and his Ring.

The faithful lord fell and his body was broken,
None seemed apt to contest the Evil and its malicious token,
Until the royal son stepped forth, wielded thy shards and fought,
And the foul hand was then hewn and the ancient prowess wore out, at the end of wit and thought.

Walküre:
Two Bastions


Two Bastions thou hast raised, my Queen, during order and symmetry,
Being the world another thing, resembling a forgotten dream,
After many wars of the prologue, all was charmed as blessed home for the Powers and their holy gentry,
Stars were not enough to gift light to your creations, thence ye commanded Two Bastions be built at the edges of the old earth, lest the tale were dim.

It was not to last,
What was in the past,
Beauty was turned into dust,
And chaos, which the Ainur mend and heal must.

Walküre:
In the name of the knight


The king of Rohan has been woken from treacherous sleep. He laments the troubles and worrying turmoil that his realm had to undergo, promising to give just retribution to those who worked for his subjugation, albeit them bearing the name of honourable knights.

Be gone from my halls, forked tongue,
Vile spirit as your deceiving advice,
Words of deceit, whispered and told,
Lies, spiteful hatred for a weakened ruler,
But weakened I was not, in truth,
For it was not illness which bent my will,
Reduced me into the manners of harmless beasts,
Forced to crawl and stagger,
So that the throne was made a gaol,
Within my golden halls, gem of noble forebears.

I saw not, I felt not, I did not,
Chained and trapped on my very seat,
While the green and fine of my country was set on fire and ravaged, laid waste and torn,
As the White Hand was to hold dominion on such forsaken lands,
Hay and farms burnt,
Suffering incessant cold rain, havoc and slaughter were our enemy's ruthless aim,
Such nasty ranks would not have advanced that much, had my foes had not some traitorous pawns at disposal,
Those who bear the glorious name of knights,
Impious and worst kind of subjects, who seek to hinder one's good,
Once flames will have been tamed, they shall be given the just and due.

Beside agony and sham riders,
In my absence, many grievous things,
My son has passed,
Fallen in the midst of the storm,
How could fate be cruel?
Which father survives his kin, if not the sorrowful one?
His sole memory I have left,
Mourning now on his tomb,
Covered by white that harms not nor makes us wail,
Resounding archaic chants of desperation.

Walküre:
Thou art despised, alas


Thou art despised, alas, by the creatures of the night,
Which do naught good or right,
In a world that groweth weak,
As forests of thorns get menacing and thick.

So that light may not pass,
To lighten merry leaves or grass,
Lair of fangs and wicked eyes,
Entering such woods is neither brave nor wise.

Some gaze not with faith at the sky,
Bound to hatred and lie,
Abandoning the just path,
The greatest harm it doth.

This world thou hast made lit,
Varda, queen of the firmament and immense wit,
And if the Evil is to hinder thy will through fire and blaze,
Remember thou our worship and utmost praise.

Walküre:
Fine tunes in the Shire


Here, enjoying life and tasting what is good in our land,
With the company of great friends,
Grateful we are for our gifts,
Which are not gold, coins, gems or precious stone,
But the fruits of the earth,
For which we much labour and strive,
Under pouring sky or awful heat,
Ordering the ground and digging deep,
Or taking care of our lovely green,
Which the sun nurtures and blesses.

To the tavern we now head,
To celebrate joy and amicable parties,
Feast of merriment and buoyant mood,
Saluting the other and telling stories of old,
While someone prefers the lonesomeness of their thoughts,
As the one I am speaking of,
Intrepid traveller and explorer of the unknown,
Much glory he got, after a perilous quest, accompanied by a queer lot of Dwarves,
Many riches he has now, as deserved reward,
And a red book he seems to be writing for the newer generation to know.

Enough with the noise,
We should leave him alone,
For he's fond of calmness and not of trouble,
Nostalgia perhaps guides his hand,
Filling each page with his longing for adventure,
What we lack here, within the wooden fences of ours,
He seeks what cannot come hither,
I fear, darker thoughts might be haunting his sleep,
Stuck in impetuous memory,
We wish him well and sound.

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