In lair of things long turned to dark
Abode of devils, where all things hark
Unto the brooding throne, the seat
Of Morgoth, ancient, foul and great
A bird was seen to fly by eye
Which never thought such things to spy.
Luthien, Luthien, Nightingale of light
Flew in that hall of lasting night.
And did she have her hair of black,
Her features fair which no things lack?
Was light upon her flowing shift
Of dreams twilit by morning kissed
In Elven glades of softness sweet.
She did, ay, even there to meet
Grim Morgoth on his throne of stone,
Great Morgoth in his halls of bone.
About the foe was army great
Which took to feast that none would sate –
For they desired more than that glut
Of devil-broth and strangled mutt.
Aye, thought the great lord’s host
The Elven maid they longed for most.
And through them all the gleaming light
Of Silmarils, the fairest, bright
Even unto the minds of gods
Made mockery of all their flaws.
The Balrog captains sheathed in steel
Against their fear of pain to feel
Stood tall and bright, misshapen yet
Of evil made, un-formed, ill-met.
The dozen hounds about the feet
Were snapping for a bite to eat
And Beren slunk, a shadow grim
To slip amongst them at their sin.
Little hope harboured he, the man
Who’d won the Nightingale, no plan
Could think nor stratagem devise
Which would not end in laboured cries
For fairest Luthien, staunch Beren
Wrapped in chains of darkling iron.
Yet faith he kept, though flick’ring dim,
For Luthien the fair of limb
And snapped the legs of Werewolf kin
And joined the fray of fearsome din.
Then rising up to shout aloud
Morgoth challenged that woman proud
Who stood. And simply. Sang a song.
And in that place of hurt and wrong
In darkness draping arches tall
Flavouring the water in the well
And stealing light from eyes of men
There came a hush. A breath. And then
A Balrog wiped a shadowed tear
And looked on it with gloomy fear
Before his knees met floor of black
With muffled shriek, with ice-like crack.
The hounds forgot their glut of meat
And found they’d lost the use of feet
And dozed into a dawning trance
Where Elven maidens passing prance
Reminding them of days of old
When they wore collars made of gold.
But Morgoth, flame flickering in his eye
But lifted head and laughed. “For why,”
He said, “should I allow you life.
A bare thing you of magics rife
Which turned to dust with passing time.
Your forebears ‘gainst me held much crime
But never this. I would not laugh
Where I should turn to ruin and wrath.
A remnant. Pitiful. A shade
Where once a fire was flaming made.”
But Luthien her tune kept up
And ran her fingers through her hair
So seeming in the brightened air
To scatter stars from ‘cross the seas
That only Oromë in hunting sees.
They filled the caverns with their sheen,
And what is more the flowers seen
In twilit glades the world around
Let loose their fragrance in a shroud.
She danced, Tinuviel, and at her feet
The spring time flowers were replete.
His flamings flickered. Humour died.
For Morgoth over naught had cried
In all the long time of his life,
Yet in that song he tasted strife
And found it bitter, yes, morose
Was music of the blooming rose.
In slumber deep he fell with crash
Into his Balrogs’ falling ash
And dreamt of music out of reach
The song perverted he would teach
And in it strained a newer note
A flowing music of the stream
Which permeated all his dream.
Long slept he, till he woke
And when in strangled tone he spoke
It was with anger newly fed;
The Silmarils had fled his head
And Luthien had fleeting gone,
To leave behind her just a song
Haunting the darkness and the gloom,
Dispelling all illusions, harshest doom.
Long was his anger vented out
In hate-filled curse and grumbling shout
But in his head, his flaming head
Her song still ran. Her music played.