Oh have you heard?
Of the willows of Teromir?
Those great trunks,
The end of many gods here.
They stand, leafless.
Grand and tall.
As ancient as time,
As strong as fate.
Their roots deeper,
Than hell's gate.
None dared defy them.
None, not even the gods.
For many have fallen,
In quests to have the trunks fallen.
Their axes, now but ash.
Their bones, home to grubs.
Their skulls, now but cradles,
To hold the maggots young.
These unlucky, lie there,
Dead, yet still alive.
Rotten, their bodies are,
Yet still they feel.
And in the silent air,
Their screams pierce, the solace.
The trunks of Teromir,
A madness, contained.
So, young fellow,
Dare you try your luck?
Against the bane of gods.
The willows of sorrow?
Fail you will,
That is certain.
So remember my words,
The warning, of this heathen.
