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“The storm is upon you… I have ridden on its wings!”

Mithrandir!

A deadly sword,

A healing hand.

A trumpet voice,

A burning brand,

A weary pilgrim on the road…

He stood upon the bridge alone

and Fire and Shadow both defied;

his staff was broken on the stone,

in Khazad-dûm his wisdom died.

Through dragon lair

And hidden door

And darkling wood he walked alone…