Do the stars still dance on the foam capped waves?
On glittering shores, do children yet misbehave?
Throwing sand and jewel into the air with joy?
The western wind does not a word say,
Of the Falmari, of Alqualondë.
The shore is cold here, the stars are dim.
Here the weariness of elven spirits worn thin,
Coaxes many to fly to ships and sail to the West.
Slowly dwindling, the number who so depart,
Hope to find peace for a sorrowed heart.
The thought to sail tempts me,
To unfurl canvas wings and away, flee,
Back home to kin sundered by the great Sea.
But I remain, beneath the dappled green leaves,
As heavy grows my aching heart in a thorny wreath.
Harsh words bind me here, trust once broken,
by words that I never should have spoken.
Instead, I listen for the thin echo of song,
of Haven fair, of Alqualondë.
