Éowyn

The simbelmynë and I are kin,

Blossoming in this land of Men:

A western star the heavens wept

Upon the mounds where Dead are kept.

The daughter of all noble kings,

Within my soul, a war cry sings;

Within my veins, Death’s fire flows . . .

I hide it, silent as the snows.

A lone, white girl amid the grass,

I see both horse and rider pass.

But as a figure carved in stone,

I am condemned to wait alone,

Condemned to stay on faltering feet,

To guard my lord King’s empty seat:

Lured by the sirens of valiance,

Yet cannot join the brave’s defense.

The hero of my heart departs;

I watch him from the cold ramparts.

He rides away to war—to doom—

A pale light set against the gloom.

His destiny beyond my own,

His heart caught up, mine left alone.

My fate is but a bitter thing

That chokes my heart—an iron ring.

And now the war-tide pulls too strong—

Rumbles with the Rohirrim’s song.

My snowy wings rupture this cage;

I swoop into the battle’s rage.

A pale light on the Pelennor,

A simbelmynë amid death’s gore,

Out of the dark, into day’s waking,

To hope’s end I ride, and to my heart’s breaking.

Soon comes upon me deathly chance:

The Witch-King’s bitter countenance.

Intent upon his prey, he stands,

Cold torture in his iron hands.

Beyond my utmost strength, this foe,

Crushing my shield with a careless blow.

I stagger backward, slight and small,

A flower before the doom of all.

I am no man, but heave one breath,

And, gazing in his mouth of death,

I drive my sword beneath his crown.

He shrivels like a blackened thorn.

I crumple to the battle floor,

A pale light on the Pelennor:

Small sliver of the morning sun,

My golden head lies bowed, alone.

A simbelmynë amid death’s gore,

I mark the dead of Pelennor:

A western star the heavens wept

Upon the field where Dead are kept.

Within, my fire grows ever faint,

Leaves in my heart a cold complaint.

Dark voices shroud me in a dream.

My life is but the palest gleam.

I wake to health, but not to hope,

Through veils of shadows forced to grope,

In silent halls of healing lie,

While outside, others wane and die.

Silent, I stand upon the wall,

My body freed, my soul a thrall . . .

Until a gentle lord espies

My brokenness and agonies.

He, too, sees darkness in his dreams

Engulfing all the brightest gleams,

Yet speaks to me of hope and life:

The consummation of our strife.

He turns my heart within his hand

And casts aside fate’s iron band.

His unveiled hope ignites my soul,

And Simbelmynë now blossoms, whole.

I will flourish in this land of Men,

Destined to see hope thrive again:

A fair, bright flower amid the grass,

I will see the days of sorrow pass.

By Mary Faustina

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