Fingolfin

A starry ruler observing with pride,  
his fortress in the North, it shines;  
a pale shadow so black as a tide    
slides on his chins' clever outlines,  
    
not being able to enter inside him,    
through his shell, impenetrable Mithril;  
a helmet he puts on, richly brimmed;  
he glistens as the gleams of angels' will.    
   
Oh, but beyond the plane of Ard-Galen,    
the Lord of Murk lurks and hides,    
where it won't ever be bright - in his den.    
   
Twilight under chilly and spellbinding stars;    
Noldor hills are fortified;    
Thangorodrim's places so mysterious and far,    
winter night was petrified.    
   
The elves faced what they did    
reject so fervently even;    
as they Death allowed not to bid    
to enter their thoughts, they believed in    
   
a truce so brightly resounding;    
that their immortality a fellowship is,    
they were created to be surrounding    
their realms with honor, beauty, to kiss    
   
with youth eternal their wise hearts    
every sincere notion or deed;    
they are also brave, when fighting wars    
   
dignity shall they retain, so freed.    
   
Yet ignorance so doozy sweet    
dimming their elven glare of co-creators    
is just an omen for hidden deceit    
before being forced to face warfare;    
instead of smelling atars.    
   
Yes, I see that the discord    
always came from the borders;  
Sauron and Morgoth, the Lord,    
are pest, arming Orc orders.    
   
The Feanor family branch opposed;    
it was ever so haughty, self-convinced,    
only Angrod and Aegnor did suppose    
so clearly what shadows planned to mince.    
   
As their Lands, soaring so Fair,  
fronted Thangorodrim's arts  
so dangerous;  
they were horrified by this lair,    
a premonition's grip of hearts -    
so canorous.    
   
Yet Morgoth and his subjected attacked;    
he spurred rivers out of flames and Balrogs,    
he stormed so unexpected and pitch black,    
the Elven ones did suddenly perceive the odds.    
   
Too many of the Noldor kin so beauteous,    
did not manage to escape tho' energetic,    
their swifty legs wouldn't cope with those    
lava gushes; rather they burnt aesthetic.    
   
The Fourth Great Battle,  
foretold by Namo sternly,  
Justice's insight Fatal,  
shifting in the Journey.  
   
Dagor Bragollach, oh, combat so epic!    
The enemy's army is approaching near;    
they conquered the fortress of this epoch,  
the Noldor they gutted and cut their ears.    
   
The action did not calm down;    
Morgoth finally withdrew and dispersed;    
snowdrops on the hair and on the crown;    
the hellish energy of Glaurung so cursed,    
   
the originator dragon spewing fire;  
sulfur and agony out of its maw,    
the High elves in agony crying there,  
sent to Mandos' Halls ~ at dawn.    
   
Doriath sheltered some survived ones,    
Thingol gave them support and cures,    
others to Osiriand so forestal ran,    
even beyond in the wasteland obscure.    
   
The Sons of Fingolfin, valiant heirs,    
weren't saved; they died in the war;    
Fingon and his father, mortified in airs,    
smitten craved; they lost their Family core.    
   
The war was ever worsening,    
even for Feanor's sons,    
the regions of elves were burning,    
holy lands ruined to ashy sands,    
   
all was engulfed - oh, passage of Aglon,    
the noble elves retreated and hid,    
whoever used a horse, whoever tried to run,    
Fingolfin heard they even Dortonion undid.    
   
Then he was overtaken by fury,    
honor's pride that burned so high,    
due to Morgoth the Enemy he had to bury    
his kin and family; the desecrated wives.    
   
An impetus within the royal soul    
made him challenge the King of Evil,  
in the latter's own domain so foul,    
Morgoth heard the roar and felt so feeble    
before the face of the King's growl.    
   
Fingolfin started approaching him,    
amid storm of dust by Rochallor's hooves,    
the stallion brave and Morgoth so grim    
couldn't dare to cross the door or move.  
   
Fingolfin did at last stand    
before the gates of Angband black and caged,    
he uttered "You King of Cowards in this Land!"    
and Morgoth heard him, got enraged.    
   
So Bauglir got outside as an Ogre,    
tall as a Giant, armored in black,    
Fingolfin attacked him, therefore    
he would either win, or get dreadfully smacked.    
   
Fingolfin started jumping around,    
so invisible and so elusive,    
Morgoth was swinging Grond so bound,    
the Hammer of the Underwold Abusive.    
   
Deep wounds did the Evil one get,    
his leg got crippled ~ forevermore,  
exhausted, he landed Grond on the head  
of the King and turned him to gore...!    
   
So sadistic and arrogant,  
Morgoth's inhumane foot,  
stepped on his pineal gland  
and turned it into twigs of blood.    
   
Across all Middle Earth and Beyond    
yowling were the souls at that hour;  
all Elves felt what happened with Grond;  
the dignified king would he outpower.  
   
Never in the endless times to come  
songs would honor his memory,    
burden kills attempted mourns;  
that grave is Fingolfin's memoir.  
   
So this is how Fingolfin died.    
The bravest among all the Noldor.  
Immortalised the King, so Dignified,  
a Legend to dawn on the beholder.  
   
An Eagle grabbed the corpse in process of defiling  
and carried him to a cliff, so unreachably up,    
with view to Gondolin, with reconciling    
influence and breathtaking view at the top.    
   
Turgon travelled there as a grieving son,  
composed the place into a hillock;  
Morgoth wouldn't dare spread his sound,  
silenced in the space of his thought;  
   
For what a power emanated is  
from the grave of Fingolfin beloved;    
secret reflections scatter bliss...    
The memorial stands there so proud of;    
   
And everyone shall always his Presence Seek and Miss.