Tolkien by Erurainon

The Song We sing

He pens the future with the past,
In rimes of dawn,
Through eves grim pass,
Drowning verse in cups of wine,
Cracked lips caught in perfect time.
Cascading from mountain-tops in withered heights,
Echoing far cross sweet starlight.
A mound of grass grows in quiet place,
Marking headstones lying grace.
Down shadow’s long packed with space,
His name is whispered,
A him of thanks.
The old man watches from the door,
His father’s eyes his own in lore.
He listens to the pressing crowd,
Recalling chapters neatly bound.