They are singing a tune in Lothlorien.
It is a dirge for the fall of Mithrandir
I care not to repeat it. O Grey Pilgrim,
the flame of Anor has gone out.
Here the grief is close to my heart.
What is that sound in the forest shadow
as if light and song have merged into one?
Is it the music that created the world?
The languages that became of the sound?
It is wordless, a lament for Gandalf.
Yet I have not the heart to tell you of it.
My facial expression reveals little
aside from the Mirkwood elven spiritual.
The moon's gaze is on its brighter side.
In this solemn night it will comfort us.
But any knowable expression in an elf,
is deeper than that fathomless distance.
You are the elven prince of sorrow.
Your grief has touched out hearts
and this world grows ever young
with the purity of your gaze upon it.
But the age of elves is ending now.
I am a Mirkwood assassin poised like a cat
with the odd expression of an elf,
called into action from the darkness,
that borders all territories on the edge of war.
I am your perpetual arrow, Frodo.
But the sound in the forest is my lament,
as if sorrow and joy have merged into one.
It is the music that created Mirkwood,
the forest deep that became of the song.
O Mithrandir, Mithrandir.
Manan elye etevanne
nórie i melanelye?
We would have followed you ...
The sorrow of you is my sacred worship
inside this grieving heart tonight.
O wisest of all Maiar, beneath the moon
above the crowns of the giant Mallhorn,
in the vanishing forest of Lothlorien.
