The darkness swallows up the light
that flickers from the guttering torch,
and presses down in frigid spite
on men who fled from city scorched
of fallen Fornost. Now cold they feel
the creep of icy death. Entombed
by earthen walls that silent steal
the withered hope of exiles doomed.
In depths the king now dispossessed,
in name he bears the dark portent
of our long wandering without rest.
Twice crownless king, what your lament?
Hidden are embers of the unbroken line
but cold lay the ashes of Arthedain.
