The Decision of the Little Black Rat


Cold
are my faint shadows
beneath my hands of grey,
I move and freeze
in movement's track - how do I come to life?
When will the dreams
of saplings beneath dripping carcasses winter-burnt
herald
the initiation of another age?
When will I come to life - and be born again?

I must give birth to myself, 'tis almost time.
Peel it, peel it off, the snake once told me -
Why? O why will I never listen?

The evening is drowning us.
Dusk bled out and all is erased by its tail
of blind gauze filling every space between the rows.
And He who wanders behind the rows
unleashes His terror upon us.
Spare us! 'Tis hopeless - do I have to tell you
that we are already lost?

Blind
are the streets in the city.
Blinded - we all.

No, I cannot stay idle - I cannot
prolong my condition, waiting
for the saplings to whisper their sweet tunes of oblivion
into my brains
with their hushed,
poisonous little voices
full of rose-coloured, glittering promise.

Their humming stirs my heart.
And oh -
How dare I look upon the masters?
How dare I
How dare -

Will there ever be an end to this? Will there ever be
a solution to the eternal problem, will there be
an answer - The Answer -
to the overwhelming question?
Am I also unable to presume?
"Fear death by water." - God,
I do not want to drown.
And yet, will I never
find a Last Homely House?

I will sit by the window
in the late afternoon,
and watch the jaded people pass -
and as a fearful gambler
that has never really won a big deal
I will reckon my chances
- Do I dare?

Am I able to surpass -
Am I able,
at last?

Can I escape the shadow
with all the wicked claws of the Average
and step into that tiny glade up there near the mountaintop
where pride is miruvor and dignity the cool breath of wisdom?

Is there a chamber
in the Last Homely House for me?

I will leave,
I will leave these shores that bore me
and sail out to the grey foaming sea bearing the cries of wailing gales
to chase after the cries of the saplings in my heart
and names in my ears.

There is no story without a prequel, 'tis the way of art.


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A/N: I know this one was difficult to understand. But any explanation would be vain - it's simply too complex and personal, and let's be honest, do free interpretations not always make it more interesting for the reader?
Yet, if you take a close look, you will discover some references to other literary works, such as T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" and J.R.R. Tolkien's "The Lord of the Rings".

miruvor - Elvish name for the sweet mead - cordial of the Last Homely House (Imladris)

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Noldor Lass