HILL OF SORCERY

Av: Adam Westlund
Bild: "Mörkveden" © Ylva Styffe

here was a stronghold, black and cold,
which rose above the mighty trees
deep in the forest, green and old,
so far away from hopeful seas.

The verdant forest glades were green
when ancient darkness crept in to
devour and soil the pure and clean.
Around the keep the shadow grew.

Soon all the trees were foul and dark.
Then came a wizard of great fame,
his staff burned with a shining spark,
Mithrandir was his elvish name.

His robe and beard were grey as stone.
A pointy hat was on his head.
He opened the dark gates alone
but then the evil power fled.

When years had past he did return
to seek the evil power's source.
He entered this time, tall and stern,
and he discovered Sauron's force.

The council of the fair and white
drove Sauron from his dark great hall.
They filled the forest with their light.
But still the stronghold did not fall.

The darkness' grip began to fade,
the wood elves sang of old days' light
but yet the dreadful shadow stayed,
among the trees ruled Sauron's night.

The Dark Lord rose far in the east.
In barren wastes, in Mordor's land,
where every sign of fair life ceased,
where not a single tree could stand.

The Dark Lord sent his servants to
recapture his strong keep of yore.
Inside the walls where evil grew
an army was prepared for war.

While nine companions travelled long
and humans fell to shield their land
the wood elves fought their foes so strong.
Against black spears they had to stand.

But with their bows they crushed their foe
and Frodo made the great Ring burn.
The elves could feel the warm winds blow,
now Mirkwood's old name did return.

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