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The Silence of the Seven Gates

A song remembering Tolkien’s First Age city of Gondolin—sung in the Third Age, when memory endures as structure and tradition rather than lived experience. Lyrics: The mountains are old, their secrets are hollow, Where the hidden path used to wind through the stone. No bird dare to fly, no hunter to follow, Through the immemorial quiet where the white wind has blown. Once there were gates—seven guards for the morning— Wrought in the glory of steel and of gold; Now only the scree and the grey-mist’s low warning Keep the high-places where the story was told. I remember the radiance—no, the memory is fading, Like a spark dropped to water, gone cold in the dark. The craft of our kin was a measured weaving The earth to the stars, but we left not a mark. We built with a majesty the world has forgotten, The hammers are silent, the anvil is cold; The foundations are perished, the roof-beams are rotten, And the "How" of the building is a tale long-untold. O, the triumph of Turgon! A white-crown of towers, Standing sovereign and tall ‘gainst the shadow-thirst. But the iron-teeth came in the red-turning hours, And the unbroken jewel of the mountain was burst. It was more than a city; it was purpose and power, A harmony lived that we cannot reclaim. Now we dwell in the dusk of a much-lesser hour, And the wind through the pass does not whisper its name. The sea has come up. The deep-salt is churning Over the valley where the Silver once grew. Belthil is broken; no restoration Can kindle the gold that the hammer-smith knew. The world is too narrow for the wonders we guarded, For the trees made of metal and the towers of light; The craft of the Maker is lost and discarded, Drowned in the salt and the long-coming night.