marduk-report

"Beowulf spoke; the old one in sorrow: "For these jewels I look on.          Thanks do I utter for to the All-Ruler,          Wielder of Worship, with words of devotion,          The Lord everlasting, that He let me such treasures To my people deal, ere death overtook me.          Since I've sold an aged life for the sword price          For a treasure of jewels, attend you henceforward:          The wants of the war-thanes; I can wait here no longer,          but battle-famed I bid you to build me a grave-hill,       Bright when I'm burned, at the brim-current's limit;          As a memory-mark to the men I have governed,     A

A son's farewell – at father's passing too swiftly has – this sorrow come; the falling veil – that sunders kin leaving bereft – those left behind a torment fresh – as falling tears salt now the wounds – that have no salve 'till years have passed – will our grief yield our heart's new pain – for his heart failing this summer's warmth – to waste has turned the daylight's strength – devoid of joy the garden fails – its growth is stunted the hearth is cold – the house is quiet the wife alone – in widow's bed the daughter lost – her doting father and both the sons

The night waxes full, in the year now old I sing tales of the past, the days of heroes who walked to Catraeth, with company or no and joyfully feasted, on poison and woe; when three hundred marched, left the Godothin and also the world, for the halls of Annun, or ancient abode, by the river in Logres where Britons wept, for Arthur's final doom; the ruin of Kingdoms, wrought at Camlann the lord of battles, who watered the hill with blood, and grew a field of swords and nations quietly weeping.

There is a problem. My precious ring, the seat and nexus of my power, is lost to me. I do not know how this came to be. I can feel, somehow, that it still “is”, and yet I cannot feel its presence. I feel as if I have been removed from Arda, removed even from Ea. It should not be possible, and yet I feel it must be so. I have spent several passages of Anar weighing the truth of this. It is, however, not the only thing that I must reckon, for I feel not the gaze of Arien, nor even of  wandering Tilion, even as I remain here unadorned beneath the sky... Despite the disorder, the chaos that is the very indication of their presence,

Ambarwain Hmm... ...this is....strange. From one moment unto the next, all that I knew of the world is utterly changed. Before now...I had been in the Temple upon the Holy Mountain, making sacrifices unto my master, as the first clash of war rose up in the west, beyond the hearing of  mortal ears. There was a crash of utter power, as if the very fabric of the world itself was shorn in torment. Then blackness as my body was torn from me. And now I find myself...here. Wheresoever here actually is. Snow lies thick upon the ground, and forests rise up about me in every direction. To the north there are a mighty series of mountains, even so hi

Elegy for all soldiers. The weeping rain, of the world's sorrow drenched the brown earth, falls bitterly for the past years, of peerless men great heroes all, that lived grasping,- their fate bravely, on fields of doom in battle-play, the blight of joy and peaceful work, for pricking-steel that grasped their hearts, to gaping graves,- in the mud of fear, and mire of war where fate's hand stalks, friends and foe men the kiss of lead, and killing stroke,- that takes a life, in traps uncaring of distant weeping, or wailing friends of sister's pain, or mother's sorrow or father's rage, and brothers fear,- of trembling wives, and orphan's tears t

To Theoden-King, Thane of battle the woe of orcs, the lance wielding of the horse-lords, hale and hearty the foe of hate, and fire of hope the grass-sea sailed, and great the riding six thousands strong, a swath they cut from gilded-roof, and grim mountains to Stoningland, and steel-hedged doom at sun's coming, there clothed in light like Valar's fury, that vexes evil with tree-thorns sharp, and targes strong Sons of Rochar, did ride to fame through morgul spell, and maddened hosts to Gondor seiged, succour granting.

A life of moments -                                Some bitter, strewn Or joyous are leant -                                To the night-gloom The subject of dreams -                                Or nightmares grim Quickly shifting scenes -                                Unending din In advancing age -                                 They soon are lost Unless to page -                                 In chaos tossed When our moments end -                                 Along with life As last seconds spend -                                 In final strife.

a forlorn crunching a trail of lonely footsteps on a white carpet