The Dead Marshes

The stagnant meres, the marshy stink.
Small creatures in the shallows sink
And struggle for life helplessly
Then drown in quagmire soundlessly.

This once was a vast battle-plain:
The Last Alliance marched to gain
The victory in the Black Land
Of Mordor, severing from hand
Of Sauron his One Ruling Ring.
So many died his end to bring
About. High elves lie side by side
With orcs, and men, and trolls, who died
In numbers uncounted to swell
The dead: lying just where they fell.

Dead waters seeped in over time
From Mordor. In that accursed clime
The marsh expanded day to day,
And rotted all good land away
Into morass, and false quicksand
Replaced what once was honest land.
During darkness flames come alight
As green flickers. These flares invite
Rare travelers to think a lamp
They follow through the bogland damp
While listening to each rustling reed
That whisper that the dead have need
For new victims which they desire.

Flee the false lamps of green fire!
These corpse-candles the undead
Carry to lure their quarry, sped
To quicksand pits so plenteous there –
To be dragged down and without air
Expire ‘twixt skeletons that grin
At each new victim that they win
To swell the ranks of corpses dread
Beneath the Marshes of the Dead.

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