Fire in Four Quarters by sallysavestheday

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North (formen): Bragollach

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Who knew fire

could run like water,

slinking and slithering its way

across the plains,

lapping up every

nest and

wallow and

sliding into every den,

scalding

with its wet,

red,

tongue?

 

Ah,

how the pines of

Dorthonion

kindled,

the sweet pitch of

their hearts

blown

up and

out,

crisping and

drifting

on the burning air,

ash falling like confetti

at the end of some grim,

incendiary

ball.

 

But

voices

yet sing in the scorched woods,

on the burnt plains.

Ghostly minstrels

still spit defiance,

weaving

a bitter harmony

with the gritty wind,

cursing Morgoth,

refusing Mandos,

howling and mourning

through the memory of

their cracked and

blistered

lips.