Minas Tirith

My poem for the majestic capital city and stronghold of Gondor

Over the gate,

beyond the falls,

beneath the Mountains,

a city looms.

Its ramparts thick,

its towers white,

its flags flutter

in the roaring gale.

Halls above halls,

doors above doors,

on unmeasurable height,

a garden drifts.

In the center of the grass,

on the crossing of the paths,

the proud tree of Gondor dresses in white.

Behind the garden,

aside the tower,

a silent fortress stands in solemnly.

Upon the stairs,

over the scouts,

across the dark halls ,

an old king rests.

Aged and weak, hunched and deaf,

but wise and bright

as any king might.

This is the last glory of the people of Gondor.

The last impenetrable fortress in the far south

standing against the evil malice of Sauron.

This is the capital of the thousand-year kingdom,

and the place where countless majestic lords dwells.

This is Minith Tirith,

the city of kings.

Over the years,

the kingdom failed,

flourishing paths were torn into ruins in dust.

Cities were conquered,

flags were burnt,

Osgiliath and Morgal fell into doom.

Nowadays，

the prospect of the city once so great is bleak.

Orcs lurks, Wraiths howl, the dark eye of

Sauron glares.

Thunder booms,

lightning flares,

and the fell hands of Mordor creep.

Crossbows are set,

escalades are raised,

horns are blown,

the fell beasts of the Wraiths whine in the

shadowy sky.

But the city remains standing,

in its ever lasting inviolable silver white sheen,

unconquered by any dark forces,

until the world is barren

and the sky is old.