Author's note : Even though I'm trying to take care of both Maeglin and Celebrimbor at the same time (no easy job), Maglor just wouldn't leave me alone, so I gave him a poem to feed on.

Talk about pushy Fëanorians.

I'll be working on 'Dusk', I promise, as soon as I get over some problems of mine.

Disclaimer: I don't own Maglor, nor anything about Middle-Earth. Sigh… The Great Creator Tolkien is the inventor of this world I like to play in.

The Singer

By Le Chat Noir

He sings beneath a star, walking the silver shore

For all blood that was lost to the flowing of tears

A shadow with a song and a darkness that tore

He mourns with guilty hands the passing of the years

His story is a tale of a fall from grace

A tale of a gift of a curse of a light

From day into sundown at a fast running pace

And the fire that sprang now dead but still burns bright

From the fairest of lands driven by proud madness

In the first night's glory rose a tune in the air

That spoke of hope and faith of loss of hope of faith

For not even the fire shall the fire spare

So again there he stands in the still aftermath

Of the crimson slaughter thrice a sword dripping blood

Wandering reddened seas and unknown foreign paths

Fighting to stay afloat under the hateful flood

An eternal culprit of deeds too fell to tell

Be for him no penance to end his lifelong sin

Yet that day already when first the shadow fell

Did he weep in his song for the fate of his kin

But before the mourner and before the warlord

There was the singer mighty in lost golden days

There were seven brothers the best of younger world

And lone on ocean's shore a grieving song he plays