TURAMBAR.
His gait was long with purpose
And against the rising sun, his silhouette wreathed by silver light
Cast doom on all who would face him, destroyed their will to fight
As terrible as all the night's worst lashings could unfold
There was a tempest in his eyes yet more frightening to behold
And his heart was wroth, its single thought devoured him inside
And a fierce gleam of worked-iron hung long and crisp at his side
From no place on earth had that metal blade been pried
His helm of black, rune-carved in silver towering high in the air
Astride his black horse climbed the warrior so fair, yet ill-used by fate
And by other wills, which burned in him, and stoked on high his hate
A menace to behold he bade his comrades strength and pride
And shot off like and arrow, ploughed through bodies piled high
Ever with one goal: And that goal drove the blaze within his heart
More than any lust of man to go crashing hard and wild and smart
And yet no one would say it, but it showed in their eyes
Even as he tore through men and orcs and barely was stilled
They should never see his like again, and wept ere he was killed
And yet still when the moon rose and the sun fell to sleeping
The Mormegil sped on like the furies of hell, drove breaking
Sheets of brutal rain and again against foes wrested of will
For that sword carved circles in the air - and where it flashed
Some head or arm landed there, and screams of the wretched spilled
In the smoked-filled air, sounded like trumpets that the fair
Might play at the turning tide despite the beast who sought him there
And that great worm, whom time had enriched and made bold
Within his fat halls of gold and gems, made haste for the ditch
He needed but clear ere he felled that grim man, that coward
Who had stood on the bridge at Nargothrond and not moved a hand
While Finduilas his love marched past with weeping never heard
This man he mocked openly once and mastered with words
One leap and this "blacksword" would soon pass from the world
But Turambar could not be stopped, could not even be slowed
The dragon leapt and Túrin's sword to all its hilts was plowed
And Glaurung the Great fell with great surprise and bellowed a hideous cry-
Whispered a few last words to Túrin then rolled one time and died
And black blood runneth everywhere, yet the sword had not expired
And Turambar who'd conquered everything he'd ever faced in life, did cry
And ripped the sword untarnished from its latest evil prize
Upon one knee then Túrin sank and recalled the dragon's words
And bade them judge who'd come to mourn him the truth in what he'd heard
And wretched was the face of Turambar that day, lumbering away
For this miracle lay before the townsfolk that loved him and his
Physical body was mended, but upon the cliffs of Taeglin swift
With his own fell sword, his life he ended. Hail Túrin! Hail Nienor!
They were not responsible for all their endless woe.
And Húrin lived to find release and the soil where the body was stowed
And his daughter washed into Ulmo's home - he found Morwen his wife and
Strength to onward go, undo some work that The Enemy had sown
But dying soon too; so passed the blaze of the mightiest warriors
Mankind had raised. And in song and in tale they are held to the stars
By men and elves alike - Namárië, namárië, Húrin and Turambar!