“My mind is darkened, filled with fear and rage.
We are not strong enough to now engage
The Dark Lord and his armies. We are lost!
This is a hard blow to my pride. The cost
Will be exacted harshly: causing all
The heritage of Gondor down to fall
In ruin. Just like death has claimed my son,
Death pours from Mordor. The Dark Lord has won.
So let me choose to die: I will die free
No slave of Mordor, with no misery
Of servitude, escaping our foe’s strength
Who will subdue us, when Gondor at length
Must yield exhausted and lay down to die.
Who wishes to see this? Never! Say I.
For I have lived, and I have striven for
The glory and the good of all Gondor,
To preserve our own heritage, our past.
But Doom’s decrees will fall on us, at last.
Enough! Death brings me peace, which I shall share
With my last son. Thus comes the end of care!
All Gondor was, all that she might have been,
All that I hoped and planned, all I have seen
From the white tower far off – yea, I can scry
Uncounted leagues – in Mordor did I spy
The Dark Lord summoning large hosts of men
And orcs and trolls there mustering for when
The Black Gate opens to unleash his horde
To overrun all Gondor. Fire and sword
He promises to us who won’t submit.
I cannot stop, nor shall I abide it!
Old fool Mithrandir’s meddling! He brings
Some beggar-prince to mount our throne of kings!
An upstart from Isildur’s line! Nay! Nay!
This shall not be! I will not see the day
When such a vagabond shall supplant me
Who has served Minas Tirith faithfully
During these darkest days of Mordor’s rise –
As I foresaw. Nor did I feel surprise
As ash-clouds vomited from Orodruin.
The darkened skies now prophesy our ruin!
Better by far to be laid with the dead!
So I shall seek my rest upon this bed
Of oil-drenched wood, to die like pagan kings
From elder days, as still the minstrel sings!”
Then Denethor a firebrand suddenly
Snatched from a surprised guard and leapt quickly
Upon the pyre. It caught alight and burned
With roaring flame as Denethor now spurned
His rod of office, fed it to the flame
And lying down, from out his cloak there came
A palantir, which he held to his breast
While laying down to take his final rest
As the flames caught, consuming all and roared
Belching black smoke which through the building poured
To hide him from the sight of all who stood
Nearby and might have saved him, if he would.
But he would not: proud in despair, turned fey,
Did Denethor the Steward pass away.
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