On The Leaving of Laurelin
(This poem was first read at the last meeting on Laurelin of the Fed Poets Society roleplaying event held at the library of The Great Smials on 13th February, 2025)
The Elves know.
Maybe it comes as a whisper on the wind,
An involuntary tug at the heart,
A turn of the head, westwards,
The call of the Valar from across the sea.
The Dwarves know it.
The lure of the far mountain,
The glint of gold,
The sparkling jewel awaiting,
Buried deep beneath their fathers’ distant halls.
Men know it.
Their restlessness defines them,
Seeking ever greener pastures,
Gaze fixed on far-flung horizons,
Compelled to know what lies beyond.
Hobbits are different.
They are one with the land,
In tune with its rhythms,
Largely incurious about what lies outside,
Content to live their lives within the bounds.
To leave is hard.
To bid farewell to trees and fields,
Familiar places with the memories they hold,
Adieu to loved ones who remain,
Goodbye to hearth and home!
Yet hobbits are tough.
From each other they draw strength,
Their will unbowed, though they may weep,
Sworn to keep the life they know alive,
Together they will go to unknown lands.
