The Reticent Raconteur

There is a secret I've been keeping, a story true and genuine

And I have not the candid heart to keep its burden clandestine

For its gravity is as weighty as a mountain capped in snow

And its memory repeats inside of me, ostinato

And every time I think of the poor lot, I recall

The fear upon their faces and the doomed fate of them all

I saw death become of light, and life become of fire

I saw it from my hiding place, within the quagmire

I bringeth forth the drama, unabridged, and unignored

The battle of the Balrog, and the mighty lightning lord