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Antique Lyrics of Arda

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Walküre:
Old merry days


Look, maidens harvesting wheat,
Poor robes, yet firm touch and neat,
In the midst of the fields of Gondor, golden treasure,
Ready for duty, albeit not disdaining leisure.

Look, maidens collecting food and exchanging laughter,
Lovely sight and common in such country, recalled gloriously ever after,
At times, toil gets much, as they have laboured since dawn,
Yet, the task they carry on, being not used to lament or moan.

Look, maidens resting and talking more,
About the old merry days of their kingdom's lore,
When the White Tree would blossom and the throne was seat of might,
Prior to the awakening of fire within the realm of night.

Walküre:
Spear of flare


Grim hours get near,
Ill envoys of fear,
Words spread by the liar,
And passed on by his foul choir.

Of slaves and night-mares,
Lurking in deep pits and lairs,
Away from light and good,
Ferocious and beast-like mood.

Into the world those monsters were brought,
Which holy ranks ever have fought,
In the heat of the monstrous clash,
That marred Arda and much reduced into ash.

You we worship and your light is for us the best shield,
Excellent weapon to use and wield,
Through the wall of darkness, a spear of flare,
Your utmost blessing that all makes well fare.

Walküre:
Majestic spoils


Shattered and broken,
This is how lies the corpse of the Smith,
Ancient temple of the most vivid flame,
And impetuous too, fortress of wonders,
His coming to life was cause to premature loss,
For the mother could not nourish such fire,
Without consuming herself as well,
And for long he had laboured along the ways of Aman,
Conceiving grandness and beauty beyond thought,
And those three Jewels of irresistible doom.

Theft and murder have led him to hostile shores,
And grey and grievous as the mourning of the Eldar,
To regain his legacy, unjustly taken,
And to save the honour of the House of mighty Elves,
Together with longing for the free land, far from divine rule,
His hands were stained with blood in equal manner, however,
For slaughter of kindred beings was the terrible toll to pay,
In order to seize the swan-shaped vessels and pass the raging sea,
Crime which none shall ever forget,
Stigma for all the Noldor and their kin to be.

The infamous oath he swore,
Words of impious will,
Clouded by wrath and thirst for cruel revenge,
Sworn on Ilúvatar the Almighty,
With Manwë and Varda as supreme witnesses,
Original root of the worst sin,
Promising to take back the treasure, against all odds,
Being the bright Vala or Maia benevolent or not,
Vowing the ruin of the Dark Lord,
But, what if the bell had tolled for the very Smith too?

Landed on the dangerous continent,
Wild and so hard to tame,
He awaited not his fellows and made to the Iron Gate,
Moved and devoured by anger, ardent as the lamps in the skies,
Asking for resolution and the end of the contest,
Alas, the radiance of Aman was no enough blessing to win,
Lone as a dying flame, he battled legions of shadow and dreadful devils,
Fiery kind of the Ainur, then fallen in the thrall of the Evil,
Surrounded he tried a last act, unfortunate and doomed to fail,
His crushed remnants were rescued from the strife, resting as majestic spoils of a one-time prideful king, whose sad soul still wanders and weeps.

Walküre:
Sayings of the Stars (I)


The Fair Elves dwell beside the godly seat, they may behold the Queen of Light,
Wife of the King, ruling Arda and of all birds the flight,
Lady of infinite halls, which thou hast made bright,
He governeth water, wood, air and stone, with thee, via decree of might.

Walküre:
Let him do, he has much to tell


Is he Bilbo? One of the Baggins, I suppose,
I know he's travelled much, hither and thither, back and forth,
Treading hazardous paths and facing riddles,
With the company of queer voyagers, fond of adventure,
Yet, his departure never was a woeful day,
For the people of the Shire love peace and solace, preferring the comfort of home and sneering the stranger,
Whom the passion of journey elects, he should take the way of the outer world,
From whence unpleasant visitors come and spoil the quiet mood,
Well, he came back, one day, with gold and gems to which naught I have seen is akin,
Whither did fate lead him? I ask, for never has the dwelling of a Hobbit welcomed such treasure, and the buoyant journeyman is now very busy with a red book.

Let him do, I tell you! Don't you know that a writer should not be disturbed by ill questions or bad manners?

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