A. R. Rahman, Värttinä & Christopher Nightingale
lament for moria
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Hammer on anvil smote
In high halls of stone
When Durin ruled with judgement wise
On carven throne.
Gleaming the vaulted roof
From pure basalt grown.
Here swords were made of dreadful power
That ere was never found
Gone,lost, mourn, despair
Grieve for the realm that once was there.
Gone, lost, mourn, lament
The end of the glory none could prevent.