But hands of yours are colder.
Your eyes are jewels icy-green,
And I do not dare to close 'em.
How long I was waiting, I cannot say,
And years have passed me by.
But all of a sudden I lost you again,
What for have I survived?
Of evening dusk I will weave the silk
And pearls for your shroud of tears.
O sister, forgive me I didn't feel
The kindred, when you were so near.
And whether I lament or sing a song,
Now you won't hear it.
I'll make you a funeral robe of fog,
Lay flowers to your feet.
Sister, I cannot warm up your hands.
As if carved of marble stone.
You lie under shadowy wings of death,
Who is thirsty to our moans.
As in your song, of lilies and stars
I'll weave for you a wreath.
I'm short of tears to ease my heart,
Ages will not efface my grief.
The hardest is knowing we won't meet again
Beyond the verge of the worlds.
The fate has designed for me none but the pain -
And our ways will not cross
Because of the Foe's spite-oozing words
And will of the cruel Gods.
A river pitch-black is an icy stream,
But Niniel's hands are colder.
Her eyes are like frozen dying green.
Nobody will dare to close' em .
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.