Risen by gentle breeze an' blood-red fingers o' sunlight
startled by stirs of earth a bird's call flies through forests old;
lo! even our door (gentle planches of oak) 's off the hinges:
wake brother and be joyous! for springtime has finally come.
Leave me fell fiend! begone from rich fields painted by mind's eye
spare me thy eloquence: fruitless chase after nonsense.
Mightiest hunter thou art – why not grab the swiftest of spears
why ain't thou after a prey, leaving me to my fine rest?
My mind's weary enough without thy breaking inside it.
Why will thou not look up to wide skies, why won't thou stand tall?
Why ever doth thy words ring so bitter under wide blue skies?
Come, take my hand! Let's spy on rabbits and pheasants
let us cross the river an' follow tracks of a young fawn.
I told ye – begone! Why thou still remain so persistent
when thy sole silent wish should be to lay down beside me:
untouched by cold wings of dread we shall feast down here in silence,
uncalled by horns of greed we shall hunt until the World's end.
Art thou mad?! Why would I crawl in the dust like some fell beast
why would I let my names and titles go with the west wind?
What's that thou may ask from me yet: spread my fine cloak
leavin' it out in the wilderness for worms to chew upon?
Hunters of might we may be: yet our names still have their meanings
the duty of lords holds us still: do not take such tolls lightly!
Thou hast spoken thy mind: I shall not deny thy greatness
nor shall I wrongfully say that thou art out o' thy good mind
still: I hold 'to my word that thy heart flies over wide skies
eyes unseeing cruel pits of deep sin in which we're crawling
devoid of hope of ever feeling Anor's golden embrace
cursed among accursed shall we dwell in the woods until world's end
and if that's true - art thou still willing to disturb my fine rest?
Anor's veiled by now: let us rest then 'til new sun rises
rest well brother: never let shadows of cold dread haunt ye!
Lay down and join me: sleep deep and merry while able
rest well brother: never let gallows of cruel death find ye.
About the form: [Quotes from ] Eclogue: a short pastoral poem written in dactylic hexameter, usually in dialogue, on the subject of rural life and the society of shepherds, depicting rural life as free from the complexity and corruption of more civilized life. The eclogue first appeared in the Idylls of the Greek poet Theocritus (c. 310–250 bc), generally recognized as the inventor of pastoral poetry. The Roman poet Virgil (70–19 bc) adopted the form for his 10 Eclogues, or Bucolics.
Hexameter is a metrical line of verses consisting of six feet. It was the standard epic metre in classical Greek and Latin literature, such as in the Iliad, Odyssey and Aeneid. According to Greek mythology, hexameter was invented by the god Hermes.
(The metric lines are not entirely punctual everywhere: they're only following pronunciation. If you dig yourself deep in the trisemes, I'm sure you will find plenty of mistakes, and I freely admit that I did the whole thing a bit blindly, relying solely on my instincts. The reason for that lies not in laziness, but my conviction that Amrod and Amras (and their poetry) are themselves far more instinctive than conscious. They would simply not have the time and patience to do this sort of thing properly. Again: their characters will be much elaborated in 'The Seven Gates').
A short note on the twins
Ambarto stands for Amrod and Telufinwe for Amras. (The name-meanings shall not be elaborated upon here – unless one of you request it -, even though their choice was no coincidence).
In my "personal universe", a strange merge of 'The Silmarillion' and 'The Shibboleth' events happened at Losgar, with the very active participation of both Caranthir and Counsellor Tyelcano (I might even write that once, I don't know). A short summary: Amras is the elder and Amrod the younger (like in The Shibboleth), but they both survive the burning of the ships (like in The Silm).