A starry ruler observes with pride
from a fortress of the North that shines
but a half-pale shadow so black as a tide
slides on his chin so bountiful on the outlines,
without being able to enter inside him
through his shell, impenetrable Mithril,
when a helmet he puts on, skyly brimmed
he glistens as the gleams of angels' will.
Oh, but beyond the plane of Ard-Galen,
the Lord of Murk lurks and hides,
where it won't ever be bright - in his den.
Twilight under chilly and spellbouding stars;
Noldor hills are fortified;
Thangorodrim's places so mysterious and far,
winter night was petrified.
The elves faced what they did
reject so fervently even;
as they Death allowed not to bid
to enter their thoughts, they believed in
a truce so brightly resounding;
that their immortality a fellowship is,
they were created to be surrounding
their realms with honour, beauty, to kiss
with youth eternal their wise hearts
every sincere notion or deed;
they are also brave, when fighting wars
dignity shall they retain, so freed.
Yet ignorance so doozy sweet
dimming their elven eyes of co-creators
is just an omen for hidden deceit
before being forced to face warfare;
instead of smelling atars.
Yes, I see that the discord
always came from the borders
Sauron and Morgoth the Lord
are pest, nesting in spider webs;
arming Orc orders.
The Feanor family branch opposed;
as it was ever so haughty, self-convinced,
only Angrod and Aegnor did suppose
so clearly what shadows planned to mince.
As their Lands so Fair
fronted Thangorodrim so dangerous,
they were horrified by this lair,
a premonition, clenching their hearts -
Yet Morgoth finally attacked;
he spurred rivers out of flames and Balrogs,
he stormed so unexpected and pitch black,
and Elven ones did suddenly perceive the odds.
Too many of the Noldor so beauteous,
did not manage to escape so energetic,
even their swifty and merciful legs didn't cope with those
lava dense gushes as to outrun; they burnt aesthetic.
The Fourth Battle Great,
foretold by a winter of music melancholic,
was an insight of Fate
for goodness unachieved initally, metabolic.
Dagor Bragollach, oh, combat so epic!
The enemy's army is approaching near;
they conquered the fortress High of this epoch
and the Noldors they gutted and cut their ears.
The action did not calm down;
but Morgoth finally withdrew and dispersed;
snowdrops in the hairs and in the crown;
the hellish energy of Glaurung so cursed,
a dragon, originator, that
spews fire and sulfur out of its maw,
and the High elves agonised so bad,
sent to Mandos' Halls to wait for the shieldless one ~ at dawn.
Doriath sheltered some survived ones,
Thingol gave them support and cures,
others to Osiriand so forestal ran,
even beyond in the wasteland obscure.
The Sons of Fingolfin, valiant heirs,
weren't saved; they died in the war;
Fingon and his father acquired mortified air,
as they were defeated; and lost their Family core.
The war was ever worsening,
even for Feanor's sons,
the regions of elves were burning,
holy lands ruined to ashy sands,
all was engulfed - oh, passage of Aglon,
the noble elves reatreated and hid,
whoever used a horse, whoever tried to run,
Fingolfin has heard they even Dortonion undid.
Then he was overtaken by fury,
honour's pride that burns so high,
due to Morgoth the Enemy he had to bury
his kin and family, the desecrated wives.
An impetus of royal soul
made him challenge the King of Evil
in his own domain so foul,
Morgoth heard the roar and felt so feeble
in the face of the King's growl.
Fingolfin started approaching him,
just like the storm of dust in the hooves of Rochallor,
the stallion brave and Morgoth so grim
did not dear move, as he was terrified to cross the door.
Fingolfin did at last stand
before the gates of Angband black and caged,
he uttered "You King of Cowards in this Land!"
and Morgoth heard him, got enraged.
So Bauglir got outside as an Ogre,
tall as a Giant, armoured in black,
Fingolfin attacked him, therefore
he would either win, or get dreadfully smacked.
Fingolfin started jumping around,
so invisible and so elusive,
Morgoth was swinging Grond so bound,
the Hammer of the Underwold Abusive.
Deep wounds did the Evil one get,
his leg got crippled ' forevermore '
exhaused he unleashed Ground and it was said
that he Hit the King and turned him into gore...!
So sadistic and arrogant
Morgoth, with a heavy inhumane foot
stepped on his head and his pineal gland,
so sacred he turned into twigs of blood.
The whole Middle Earth and Beyond
echoed with torn soul, as a howler,
all Elves felt that happened by Grond,
the most dignified king was dead, outpowered.
Never in the times to come so hurting
songs wouldn't honour his memory,
as this is too heavy a burden,
it killed even mourns of emory.
So this is how Fingolfin died.
The most noble and brave among all
Noldors, a King so Dignified
but Torondor of Manwe Swished its wings and he shall
grab the corpse in process of defiling,
it carried him to a cliff so unreachably up,
with view to Gondolin, with reconciling
influence and breaths held before the air at the top.
Thurgon travelled there out of the duty of a son
he turned the place into a hillock
so the limping Morgoth wouldn't dare spread his sound
even with his thoughts, as it's a shock
what a power emanated is
from the grave of Fingolfin beloved;
secret reflections scatter bliss...
The memorial stands there so proud of;
And everyone shall always his Presence Seek and Miss.