The wind over the mountain whistling
The dwarves sit in their halls of stone
Their hearts are colder than the mountain peaks
Colder, colder, to the bone.
“Our fingers long for work of ours!”
Their voices cry with the wind.
“Give us back what belongs to us!”
Their grief beyond any other’s ken.
No care for trees, nor care for sky
No care for other moving things
Just let them have the work of their hands
The crowns and jewelry fit for kings.
Their love is silver, bright, bright stones
And blood of the mountains, fiery gold
They wish to sit and hammer away
Shaping things soullessly cold.
The evil bane of love and laughter
Tightens the grip on the shapers of stone
Greed and hunger for riches eternal
Holds them tightly without a groan
Though for their work men have fought
The dwarves’ love is only for it
The work of their hands, the silver and gold
And evil tightened its foul grip.
There came a force the dwarves couldn’t defeat
Their weapons lay useless on the cold-stone floor
Still held by awe of their own handiwork
The dwarves didn’t hear the beat on the door.
Had they praised the Giver of their Gifts
Goellen, Mountain-Maker of fame
Their hearts would have been steeled against this fate
But evil overcame, greed, the dwarvish bane.
copyright 2008 by Magical Ink (magical-ink.blogspot.com)