[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 light-