Forest spiders take my tongue so words that sound out do not pain.
There was nothing in Mirkwood.
A name is earned, not given, not chosen for yourself on will alone.
Let it die, there was no past in Mirkwood.
Pray that the deafening silence swallows me before I ask who to blame.
Nothing has ever happened in Mirkwood.
Let me cry out that accursed name with venom on my tongue in lands of home.
Nothing to remind me of days in Mirkwood.
I lay my purpose at your feet, pray one shall take me to lands that grow.
Fire is cold in the forests of Mirkwood.
My back stands guarded by axes joined, no ill falls to hands so weak.
If I beg, if I weep,
You would walk with me even to Mirkwood.
