ReVerse

[HerenIstarion]

When the moon was new and the sun young
of silver and gold the gods sung:
in the green grass they silver spilled,
and the white waters they with gold filled.
Ere the pit was dug or Hell yawned,
ere dwarf was bred or dragon spawned,
there were Elves of old, and strong spells
under green hills in hollow dells
they sang as they wrought many fair things,
and the bright crowns of the Elf-kings.
But their doom fell, and their song waned,
by iron hewn and by steel chained.
Greed that sang not, nor with mouth smiled,
in dark holes their wealth piled,
graven silver and carven gold:
over Elvenhome the shadow rolled.


There was an old dwarf in a dark cave,
to silver and gold his fingers clave;
with hammer and tongs and anvil-stone
he worked his hands to the hard bone.
and coins he made, and strings of rings,
and thought to buy the power of kings.
But his eyes grew dim and his ears dull
and the skin yellow on his old skull;
through his bony claw with a pale sheen
the stony jewels slipped unseen.
No feet he heard, though the earth quaked.
when the young dragon his thirst slaked.
and the stream smoked at his dark door.
The flames hissed on the dank floor,
and he died alone in the red fire;
his bones were ashes in the hot mire.


There was an old dragon under grey stone;
his red eyes blinked as he lay alone.
His joy was dead and his youth spent,
he was knobbed and wrinkled, and his limbs bent
in the long years to his gold chained;
in his heart's furnace the fire waned.
To his belly's slime gems stuck thick,
silver and gold he would snuff and lick:
he knew the place of the least ring
beneath the shadow of his black wing.
Of thieves he thought on his hard bed,
and dreamed that on their flesh he fed,
their bones crushed, and their blood drank:
his ears drooped and his breath sank.
Mail-rings rang. He heard them not.
A voice echoed in his deep grot:
a young warrior with a bright sword
called him forth to defend his hoard.
His teeth were knives, and of horn his hide,
but iron tore him, and his flame died.


There was an old king on a high throne:
his white beard lay on knees of bone;
his mouth savoured neither meat nor drink,
nor his ears song; he could only think
of his huge chest with carven lid
where pale gems and gold lay hid
in secret treasury in the dark ground;
its strong doors were iron-bound.
The swords of his thanes were dull with rust,
his glory fallen, his rule unjust,
his halls hollow, and his bowers cold,
but king he was of elvish gold.
He heard not the horns in the mountain-pass,
he smelt not the blood on the trodden grass,
but his halls were burned, his kingdom lost;
in a cold pit his bones were tossed.

There is an old hoard in a dark rock,
forgotten behind doors none can unlock;
that grim gate no man can pass.
On the mound grows the green grass;
there sheep feed and the larks soar,
and the wind blows from the sea-shore.
The old hoard the Night shall keep,
while earth waits and the Elves sleep


**********************


The aged earth will lie all cold, senile
With crust of mould and rotting vile
Iron rust will cover ruins bare
Brown dust for bleeding feet to fare
When the mountains crumble an’ sweep
Giants will die, and humans weep
New-born orks will sprawl out, cover all
Out o’darkling caves, and the trees will fall
Ruin they will bring, hack and blood
Cruelest of slaves, out they’ll come like flood
Chance will rule, no law, the stronger hand
Spoiled be alike the sea and the land
Wretched they’ll be, and they will not last
Like ants o’er hill and plain marching fast
Crumpled steel and dusted lead
With the wind blown like a seed

There’ll be youthful giant on a stripped plain
Steel and lead he’ll give away bain
With nails and planks he’ll toy at will
And with such a play his feet heal
And cubes he’ll break, and squares he’ll smash
Combined rule for him’ll be hash
His toes’ll be quick, his fingers fast
His stomach huge and waist so vast
He’ll spy the sparrows flyin by
And pebbles falling from the sky
He’ll mark them go, all pigeons old
As they pass over waters cold
He’ll be reborn in green of pool
And never will he loose his wool

There’ll be dove over black mire
Of all his tribe the king and sire
Among their thousands youngster frail
With finest feather of hue grey-pale
Free for one day them all to lead
With jet-black eye of fiery bead
Droplets falling down his pearly wing
Steely voice for his song to sing
He will give no care for the giant’s cube
And he’ll bother not with the orkish tube
O’er the mire he’ll settle, pigeonhole to build
Palace for himself, wordmoot for his guild
Strong he’ll grow, of eye and of the heart
Fast he’ll be as wind, as storm, as flying dart
He will see them go, monks in hats of cork
Who will heed him not, wielding rusted forks
Heading off his mire, where he’ll grow so strong
Ruling flying hosts and cooing throngs

There they will be, humble monks of Fork
Keen of sight beneath their hats of cork
Shaven rosy cheeks utter sign of health
Feasting day and night, needing there no stealth
They will sing by day, they will dance by night
They will keep no goods and will travel light
Over shining water, mirror of the sky
Like to clouds white in the breeze to fly
Their forks they’ll polish to make them shine
The fame of their cook will gather guests to dine
Their huts so warm, shelter in the lee
The keep of love, joy and leaping glee
Tables will snow food and wine will fall like rain
Fiddles hum the tune to praise their happy reign
Realm they’ll found for seekers after quick to find
Rest with peace of heart, neath the sign of hind

There the wealth will be given free
For each who asks on the count of three
There the door will be open wide
All secrets be gone, and no vice to hide
The Day shall shine, the sea shore be calm
Air be sweet, flowers bloom and exhale balm
Woods will rise anew, all the ice be rived
Sprinkling silver dew o’er the earth revived