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written_leavesLighting those trailing threads of life
On an austere, stony, fallen brow
We reach the Crossroads with its fallen, flower-crowned king and decisions to be made that are not truly choices - with it an unusual piece on Gollum that was a poetic exercise in an unusual form from the 13th century.
No Other Way
Herein lies the point of decision,
Herein lies the crux -
The crossroads are laid before you,
But only one path can be chosen.
A choice that really is no choice,
For there is no other way.
A gleam of light escapes the darkness,
A dying hand grasps at the shred of day -
A single beam upon a crown of flowers,
Lighting those trailing threads of life
On an austere, stony, fallen brow.
Only one glance to hearten you
Before the hard road,
And the Ring, consume your spirit:
The darkness cannot prevail forever.
The dead countryside lies shrouded,
The aged, silent trees await your choice.
The ragged edges of the dark gather
Enclosing the wasteland as a cloak.
You know which path must be taken,
For there is no other way.
-
Poor Smeagol Harms Not Master
Inspired by the patterning of Tom O'Bedlam's Song, traditional from the 13th century
A gollum in my gullet
As I gulp my gangreous gainings,
I'll seeking take or missing make
Your restless sleep a-faining -
For I need a ring of metal
To soothe my soul's betrayal,
And in my grasp I long to clasp
My own pure golden grail.
And I do cry: Listen! Care,
More careful, must move faster!
Come hobbits now, be not afraid,
Poor Smeagol harms not Master.
Through Marches took we, harshly,
All the moanings merely madness;
The whispers call though often fall
To bickering and sadness -
I will find the way of mazes,
And nearest behold flickering;
They do not hear the voice so near,
Inside my being snickering.
And I do cry: Listen! Care,
More careful, must move faster!
Come hobbits now, be not afraid,
Poor Smeagol harms not Master.
When I show the shadowed shortcut,
And the silent stoneway sleeping,
A moment's doubt I'll not get out
By nimbleness or weeping,
But desire upon a chain hangs,
A slender threaded treasure,
The price be paid unto the maid
That I might at last know pleasure.
And I do cry: Listen! Care,
More careful, must move faster!
Come hobbits now, be not afraid,
Poor Smeagol harms not Master.
-
On an austere, stony, fallen brow
We reach the Crossroads with its fallen, flower-crowned king and decisions to be made that are not truly choices - with it an unusual piece on Gollum that was a poetic exercise in an unusual form from the 13th century.
No Other Way
Herein lies the point of decision,
Herein lies the crux -
The crossroads are laid before you,
But only one path can be chosen.
A choice that really is no choice,
For there is no other way.
A gleam of light escapes the darkness,
A dying hand grasps at the shred of day -
A single beam upon a crown of flowers,
Lighting those trailing threads of life
On an austere, stony, fallen brow.
Only one glance to hearten you
Before the hard road,
And the Ring, consume your spirit:
The darkness cannot prevail forever.
The dead countryside lies shrouded,
The aged, silent trees await your choice.
The ragged edges of the dark gather
Enclosing the wasteland as a cloak.
You know which path must be taken,
For there is no other way.
-
Poor Smeagol Harms Not Master
Inspired by the patterning of Tom O'Bedlam's Song, traditional from the 13th century
A gollum in my gullet
As I gulp my gangreous gainings,
I'll seeking take or missing make
Your restless sleep a-faining -
For I need a ring of metal
To soothe my soul's betrayal,
And in my grasp I long to clasp
My own pure golden grail.
And I do cry: Listen! Care,
More careful, must move faster!
Come hobbits now, be not afraid,
Poor Smeagol harms not Master.
Through Marches took we, harshly,
All the moanings merely madness;
The whispers call though often fall
To bickering and sadness -
I will find the way of mazes,
And nearest behold flickering;
They do not hear the voice so near,
Inside my being snickering.
And I do cry: Listen! Care,
More careful, must move faster!
Come hobbits now, be not afraid,
Poor Smeagol harms not Master.
When I show the shadowed shortcut,
And the silent stoneway sleeping,
A moment's doubt I'll not get out
By nimbleness or weeping,
But desire upon a chain hangs,
A slender threaded treasure,
The price be paid unto the maid
That I might at last know pleasure.
And I do cry: Listen! Care,
More careful, must move faster!
Come hobbits now, be not afraid,
Poor Smeagol harms not Master.
-