J. R. R. Tolkien "Song of Durin" paroles

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Song of Durin

The world was young, the mountains green,No stain yet on the Moon was seen,No words were laid on stream or stone,When Durin woke and walked alone.He named the nameless hills and dells;He drank from yet untasted wells;He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,And saw a crown of stars appear,As gems upon a silver thread,Above the shadow of his head.

The world was fair, the mountains tall,In Elder Days before the fallOf mighty Kings in NargothrondAnd Gondolin, who now beyondThe Western Seas have passed away:The world was fair in Durin's Day.

A king he was on carven throneIn many-pillared halls of stoneWith golden roof and silver floor,And runes of power upon the door.The light of sun and star and moonIn shining lamps of crystal hewnUndimmed by cloud or shade of nightThere shown forever far and bright.

There hammer on the anvil smote,There chisel clove, and graver wrote;There blade was forged and bound the hilt;The delver mined the mason built.There beryl, pearl, and opal paleAnd metal wrought like fishes' mail,Buckler and corslet, axe and sword,And shining spears were laid in horde.

Unwearied then were Durin's folk;Beneath the mountains music woke:The harpers harped, the minstrels sang,And at the gates the trumpets rang.

The world is grey, the mountains old,The forge's fire is ashen-cold;No harp is wrung, no hammer falls:The darkness dwells in Durin's halls;The shadow lies upon his tombIn Moria, in Khazad-dûm.But still the sunken stars appearIn dark and windless Mirrormere;There lies his crown in water deep,Till Durin wakes again from sleep.

Sangen om Durin

Hvert berg var grønt og ung vår jord,Og månen blank og uten spor,Intet navn bar sten og strøm,Da Durin våknet fra sin drøm.Han navnga navløs ås og dal;Han drakk fra urørt kilde sval;Han bøyde seg mot Speiltjern ned,En stjernesvimmel natt og se!En krans av stjerner, fjern og nær,Ga bildet hans en krone der.

Hvert berg var høyt og jorden blid,Før kongers fall i Alders tid,Før kongers makt i Gondolin,Og Nargothrond, falt i ruin,Og de fór vest fra verdens strid,Vår jord var skjønn i Durins tid.

På huggen trone satt han drott,Blant søyler i sitt dype slott,Med sølvergulv og gylent laft,Bak porten sterk av runers kraft.Der solen varm, og månen kald,De glitret der i bergkrystall,Til mørkest natt ble evig dag,I berget, dverger til behag.

Og hammer dér mot ambolt klang,og slegge slo, og meisel sang.Der smiddes sverd, der smiddes dolk;Der bygdes stort av Durins folk.Der brant juveler under fjell,Og brynjer smidd som fiskeskjell,Og øks og klinge, skjold og spydBle samlet der til dvergers fryd.

Ja, ung en gang var Durins ætt;Da sten og sang var like lett,Når skalder kvad og harper sang,Og ved porten steg trompeters klang.

Trøtt er fjellet, jorden grå,Essens ild er aske nå;Der slegger slo til harpers brus,Nå er det mørkt i Durins hus.En skygge går blant atterljom,I Moria, i Khazad-dûm.Men ennå sés en sunken brannI Speiltjern, i det mørke vann;Der har hans krone funnet ly,Til Durins natt blir dag på ny.

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