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Antique Lyrics of Arda

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Walküre:
Hoisted colours, to the ruin of order


Time came eventually,
For the resolution of the eventful tale,
Fable of vice, sin, fall and desire,
The good old name of a lineage of superb monarchs,
Very little faith they ended up harbouring in such ardent spirit,
A grand empire may not be chained nor confined, they thought,
Greatest force on the earth, ruling over waves and powerful sires,
Númenor, fierce and proud, majesty of kings and legendary lords,
Five-pointed Star, raised by the will of the Holy Thrones,
And gifted to the loyal Men.

Men, who equally partook in the elder war,
Fighting side by side, beside the Eldar, their truest friends,
Finest kind among the mortal Children,
They feared not, fled not, nor were they to miss the epilogue of the ancient agony,
There were they, when the Good the most them needed,
By the ruthless hand of Morgoth, they suffered equal evilness,
In the grimmest hour, hope for the tortured Beleriand was born,
The Half-Elf, sung and worshipped in every lay,
Glorious mariner of all times, undaunted and gallant beyond reckon,
He took the rapid routes of the sea, to beg and speak before the Powers, for the sake of both kinds.

The divine might spoke in favour,
And so tyranny was ended,
A continent sank into the blue,
Carrying with it memories of joy and woe,
The Voyager would guard the ways of the ether in eternity,
Brightest star, he led Men to their new dwelling,
Far from the troubles of Middle-earth, and closest mortal shire to the undying shores,
Fashioned in the guise of such hope-infusing lamp of the firmament,
To be of good omen,
The first king was of the Saviour's kin, the twin who chose glory and death.

Noble crown, what have you done?
Why was the sacred alliance forsworn?
Why was friendship turned into envy?
Not willing to part from riches and clout, you began to yearn the life which lasts forever within the circles of Eä,
For your demise you deemed unjust fate and burden,
Alas, you have invited at your court the real bane of Men, disguised as a captive who rendered you all his pawns,
The worst crime against the order of the world,
War was waged against the Blessed Realm, in order to seize the holy country of the Archangels,
An enormous fleet sailed, vast as the sea itself, as an ominous stillness pervaded the waves,
The menacing sky was red and ardent as the wrath of the Western Lords, while the colours of the proud king's vessel were hoisted, to the ruin of the order.

Walküre:
Sayings of Stars (II)


The immortal coast is told to enjoy sweet breeze and foam,
The shore of Aman, that mortal foot may neither tread nor roam,
Not even the pious Elda, living and lingering as time is bound to flow,
Should he do evil or mayhem sow.

Your blessing you have placed, my Queen, hiding the right way with oblivion and fog,
Lest the exiled were to seek return, like a guest contrite and rogue,
May the charm avail the gods' scope, wide concealing spell,
To keep the shrine secure, as the Lords deemed just and well.

Walküre:
May he fare well


Too weary even for triumph,
Heaviest burden on his shoulders,
The little hero was not well, still,
A miracle, that the saviour of the modern age succeeded,
Regardless of the imperative task, the very challenge of doom,
There he had cast it, into the primeval fire,
Fell flames that shaped and forged our ruin,
And the undoing of the token overthrew the nightmare from his black throne,
He may only wander, now, as a miserable ghost devoured and mangled by hatred,
Poison he liked to spread, which he shall taste unto the End.

Gentle hero, why do the joys of peace not suffice?
Is it maybe the memory of tragedy?
Sorrow and toil, much fatigue,
Of which one cannot get rid,
For that vicious dagger had pierced too deep,
With its hexed venom harming still,
And the sting of a monster, which is gruesome breed of an old horror,
He shall take the way of the sea, passing through waves and the tides of this decaying world,
Bidding farewell to his lovely and warm home, treasure and shelter of his heart,
Heading to shires where naught withers, of ever-green fields, realm of the Keepers guarding the universe and its sidereal halls.

Walküre:
Her wish


Have you seen those shapes of stone, right into those woods? Adjacent to the realm of Lórien of Golden Leaves, and south of the known Gladden Fields. Nay, your eye was not prey of illusions. Those were not sham images, as many tongues are used to repeating along these ways, unto the lands of the knights. They are statues, of the finest sort: made by Elven hand without doubt, I am certain. Old testimony of a tale, which many would dread and very few know, however. Insignia of glory, now left to the wilderness of such wasted country, needing rule and care.

The story begins with the coming of the Lady and the Sire to the kingdom of golden woods, whose dwellers requested new lords to serve and admire. Particularly, that maiden was a mistress of grand potency, revered and recalled in the most ancient lyrics. Content she was not with the sole establishment of her new seat, since persisting desire had advised to render the borders safe. And that wish was stout will, engendered by years of strife, combating shadows that ever pave their path back.

Mighty ruler of magic, war she waged, meant to repulse those foul legions infesting the peaks into the mist, cleansing the river and its calm waters from peril and filth. Through the vibrant blades of her woodland guardians, and the rapid bow of deadly archers. And through her enchanting words, commanding the skies, making waters loud and wrathful, summoning frightening tempest. Until victory was hers.

Statues were raised and placed among the branches of the newly-seized region, for the reminiscence of such restoration of good. But the government of those lands could not be held for long, in that it was ground that stood out of the Golden Wood; too far from merriment and marvel to reach. Too far for the arts of the Lady to embalm trees and streams, under the wings of her love. Therefore, solitary they now lie, those shapes delved in the stone. Waiting still for the proper time, to cure the tainted soil and mend.

Walküre:
THE HEARTH OF TALESFireside chats in the Shire

--- Zitat ---Here, come to the warm fire,
Within the merry ways of the Shire,
Should one want to please the need, strong and dire,
We fain fancy the teller, but not the liar.
--- Ende Zitat ---

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