The dryads are hovering
over their trees, in sadness,
distress, in disbelief;
and dropping their shyness,
and losing their wisp,
they cry in unison,
with growls and screams.
The tree nymphs are grieving
and wailing with woe to
all who will listen on
the pale earth below:
This is our garden,
this is our home;
what is there left if
the trees all be gone.
Then Artemis joins them,
hearing their cries, and
they circle with promise,
filled up with great joy;
dancing and dancing and
singing with glee as tree sisters
celebrating the end of outrage.
But Artemis calls them in a
voice of low note, telling them
sadly that the gods have no weight;
for this earth has been taken,
and their garden disturbed,
and their land that was plenty
will soon be no more.
Then a wail grows up shrill as fierce
as the wind, and the dryads cry and
and groan with great pain,
and the leaves of the trees sing sad
in discord as a chant grows louder
for the whole world to hear.
This is our garden,
this is our home;
what is there left if
the trees all be gone!
This is our garden,
this is our home;
the trees are our breath,
the leaves are our gowns.
This is our garden,
this is our home;
life is the forest
but death is the blade.
And then with the chant
the clouds all drew near
and blackened with sadness
and rumbled with rage;
and filled the whole sky
with flashes of light,
pouring down from above
the tears of goodnight.
For J. R. R. Tolkien
28/5/2019