Ithilien, Maine

The mills are quiet,
rain-washed monuments;
the river flows clean over the falls,
flowers conquer its banks;
young girls squeal in the foaming pools.

But there are orcish scrawls on the rocks,
and shopping carts rusting in the stream;
on the shore a tree stands dead,
stripped of its bark for nothing.

The men of the land
have not forgotten the blackened hand;
the hobbit remembers victory with sadness,
and turns his head to the west.

   - O Ceallaigh

Copyright © 2006 Felloffatruck Publications. All wrongs deplored.

All opinions are mine as a private citizen.