Restless
In the mourning beauty of the Elven lament the terrors of Moria gently fade
away; reality softly blends into a dream of healing.
Here, the Fellowship can rest.
Yet he sits apart, resting not; his shoulders are weighed down by burdens I
cannot see, his golden head bent as though hiding from the light.
He sits apart, and mourns alone.
"Take some rest," I say. My hands ache to reach for him, to offer what
comfort they can—,my coward feet take me beyond where he sits.
His eyes are always searching out mine—,always their bright light is too
painful for me to look upon.
He sits alone.
If rest is to be had, my heart will not find it here.
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by
Cinzia
he night weaves deep blue shadows among the trees, clear white starlight
dancing under the magnificent boughs, as cleansing to the weary soul as
spring water to a tired body.
