The Elven Hills
“Once there’s a place, between two small hills,
Where elves used to go, to dance when world stills,
Where stories would be told and songs would be sung,
When fires would crackle when night was still young.
They would gamble and laugh and feast until morn,
And make roses grow without any thorns,
And sing songs that could give your spine chills,
These people whose voices rang out through two hills.
They make bread and ale and beautiful things,
They bring children and old and high elven kings,
To listen to their merry making deep in the hills,
To prove their worth and to sharpen their skills.
Their fires grow dim and many years they’ve not met,
Time has not let them, nor war’s constant threat,
But still there is laughter and still there is joy,
When elves met again under trees with their toys.
These elves share their music with all creatures here,
So long as they promise to keep these hills clear,
But a new race comes with drums that are drumming,
They know in their hearts that war will be coming.
Elves with rounded ears soon will come marching,
Their swords will be raised and their bows will be arching,
And somewhere out there deep horn bellows out call,
To warn of death and its living thralls.
That small place of joy is now much too still,
The elves have left their homes and these hills,
Their grass has grown grey and their sun is not bright,
No longer shall they play their pipes in the night.”
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