Minas Ithil, radiant daughter of the Moon,
Lady in white glistening upon the darkly tumbled slopes.
Fair and lovely shield-maiden,
To the East you turned with a face full of courage,
Standing your watch untiring and bold.
Bright and fierce with the light of Elendil,
Tower of the Rising Moon you were.
Built with the strength of the hearts that conceived you;
Strength was in the hands that lifted up your stones.
Your luminous arms embraced a glittering moonlit sky,
Magnified your splendorous light amid the watching stars.
With the grace of a dancer,
Your many-tiered skirts swept across the pass,
Arrayed in steps of pearl down the silent mountain-side.
You were fair of face, and stern of heart
With eyes that in darkness shone bright.
The bravest sought your favor,
Minas Morgul, ashen moonrise midst the haze,
No memory of Númenor in your leering, rotted visage.
Dark-streaked with blood and fire,
Sullied and neglected.
A ragged and leprous horror you’ve become.
With hollow sockets in unceasing watch,
Your cold eyes gaze from a death-mask of stone.
No pity dwells in your cold-embered heart.
Black Sorcery’s pale Tower.
The Moon hid her face from you long ago
Though you still bear her name;
Forcibly twisted, a bastard you’ve become.
In darkness you brood alone in your betrayal
With your grey stained skirts of iron and of stone
Lying heavily on the black-ragged slopes.
Warden of lightless dreams,
Your heart is filled with evil.
None will come to you willingly now,
A. Buckles / '03