Glamdring

Gondolin—burning in the distance, master’s hand bloody and limp.  Burning white with impotent fury. Clawed hands, cries of fear and delight.  Foe-hammer found; Turgon has fallen! Cursed and spit upon. Ages pass.  A hand, a voice, a vision of power.  Hilt grasped, claimed to battle again.  At the grey traveller’s side, miles untold, till darkness reached. Flames, whip cracking, standing firm. Then depth untold, hewing the enemy, cold water and endless stair.  Victory on the cold mountain.  Then on, to the gates, to war, to the end of all tasks—to a mantle in a far, green country.