The brass winds up the old tune again, a
pleasant bluesy brewing. It could be
a shaded New Orleans café where
One enjoys coffee and odes to rejection,
recreation, You name it.
The breezes wail piteously – and die out.
Neo-jazz? The Eyes undroop lazily.
What a nice change.
Fuzz away, boys.
But the winds died out, my Lord.
Why, so they did, He smiles kindly.
(He was awake all the time, really.)
Infinity is the moment just after the applause,
just before the unveiling.
All eyes on stage. Blackness.
And then, one mellow, sad flute.
Of course, no One is fooled.
And those who see, see him turn
To the East, expectant as –
a blinding flash of fire in the oval
rips through the shadow swathes of God-only-knows-what
Where the uncovered orchestra (right there all along)
Unleashes itself in a tempest,
Charging the stairway to heaven
along quivering staves, pounding them down,
Flinging itself along like a snake of flame,
As part upon part -
Piano is really a high form of percussion,
the violins could stop traffic, presto, presto,
pipe up, everyone
- that lay ages half-finished
in its tissue, flies toward the others
and fits. Crash. Boom.
A melodic rush, and then the inevitable.
Perfection, perfection, the Good ones harped,
Yes, the orchestra plays back, perfection,
louder - PERFECTION!!! -
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.