Maglor's Dream
You are no more; I have lost you,
not to shadow or scorching chasm, but to the
Stars
To dawdle along the tempestuous coast,
not to saunter around a blue cove and take consolation,
but alone, pining,
to hear the wild gales wailing,
to watch the shores bellow a great tide which rises to pummel
against the yawning gulf, left hardened sediment solemnised by supine sorrow.
To trudge, to stumble,
not to hasten or abide with homely abode afar
but to seek for brief den shallow,
to sojourn in lonesome sanctuary from the blustery storm,
and among the crevasse
one finds no feathered pillow,
not fine sand to pad nor dent to rest my head
but bare jutted rocks enduring among sheets of dampened weed, years-darkened
Ink black
My crib
My bed
To sleep,
not away but Through my weariness in this long and lonely plight,
one shivers in sobering torpor unaccompanied
a kind of forfeit destitute no hollow echoes of lyre harp untuned
nor sonorous voice hoarsened
Nor stiffened chords once pliable Could Speak the Cavern quietude
Inanimate,
to caresses the jagged surface, of brimming salineness
swashed in the inpours of tidal saltiness
Yes, drooping eyes bleeds a sea of woes emptied to nought
Yet Still I know
you are the tender night,
the gentle dream clothed in temperate light,
divine fire redder than my very life that
Embraces meโโ
Into your formless, fleecy might
by vigil ardensole
