Ithil melloneva Ulmo
12/20/10
What are your vaunted towers,
Your noise, your rushing
Your vast brightly lit bowers?
What indeed is your comparative worth?
Little
To the terror and beauty of the cresting waves.
Less
To the smell of gods in the rushing wind.
Nothing
To the whispers upon the silvering seas.
You may build your monumental palace
Fill it with noise, with light, with echoes and crashes.
Create and create until you've o'ertopped them all,
These titanic fortifications you've raised against Divines
and lesser men.
You are yet nothing
Chaff
Ashes
Returning to dust.
You are yet outdone by life as it is.
You turn your back on Her
But she is there
Waiting.
-David Atchison
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