Where would a Hobbit be,
struggling alone in his long quest,
without the second set of sturdy feet?
How could a Hobbit
stand a hope
had he to face the eerie taunting of the Ringwraiths,
the haunting, blazing evil gaze
on his own?
How could a Hobbit see
some good in the world,
something worth fighting for,
without those earnest eyes that
speak of stars, of tales that endure,
of light persisting, of promises pure?
And how is it possible for any man,
let alone a Hobbit,
to tread to Mordor’s smoking pit,
up to Mount Doom where nothing but shadow looms,
to bear the unbearable—
the One Ring that whispers its seduction,
too enticing, too powerful,
as to rule creatures and all—
without a friend against all enemies,
whose loyalty as deep as ancient roots?
Impossible. Unimaginable.
Yet however unlikely to win against the odds without aid,
the Hobbit shall stand and brave the gathering storm,
even if the fellowship ceases to exist,
for it’s the Masterful Weaver who holds fate’s thread,
He crafts a tale where heroes small find victory as He intends
No matter the trials, the losses, the cost,
the Hobbitses shall not be lost—
even in the sorrow of parting’s riposte.
Not all tears are evil, some guide to the Undying Lands
where peace harks and wounds find complete healing.
