Post bUTadH86tSJ

Tamas Ferencz Nov 26, 2014 (14:36)

Here is a Quenya translation of the poem Winter Comes To Nargothrond from the Lays Of Beleriand, done some years ago.

Laire lencave i lómea tauresse
sintane ar quelle. Súri ortaner
Andúnesse i ranyaner or eari *ormie.
Lassi lehtaner lingala olwallor
taltaner malwalaurie, ar tomper telqui
halle ar helde aldaron,
alasenda lussala ter aldeoni alatompe
hlápula ar lutua. I lunte silma
Tilionwa círala, arwa terene tyulmo,
ciryarámainen canta naltanáro,
Andúneo rímasse aira ortane
se hísie hopassi han Ambaro landa
Rávie rómainen hríve roitane
nainala tavasse, naraca ar nwalca;
ringa rosse túle, ar rimpa helce
ahea menello, árelóra, sinda,
lámina lattarista, lehtaina raumonen.
Oloiri oanter, ar earenna sírala
neni marye, naire, tiuce,
wingie, *luttequante, hwinyala,
úvesse váner. Alaco effirne.
Helce hótulle háye ingorillor
síve ere ringa, senda. Sarnetinda
angaringa andúne amortane palla,
telumíre tára túpa tumbaquilde,
súrilór' erumi ar síve ausar
nixie nu niller tauri.

The summer slowly in the sad forest                                   
    waned and faded. In the west arose                                    
    winds that wandered over warring seas.                                
    Leaves were loosened from labouring boughs:                           
    fallow-gold they fell, and the feet buried                        
    of trees standing tall and naked,                                     
    rustling restlessly down roofless aisles,                             
    shifting and drifting.                                                
                               The shining vessel                         
    of the sailing moon with slender mast,                                
    with shrouds shapen of shimmering flame,                        
    uprose ruddy on the rim of Evening                                    
    by the misty wharves on the margin of the world.                      
    With winding horns winter hunted                                      
    in the weeping woods, wild and ruthless;                              
    sleet came slashing, and slanting hail                           
    from glowering heaven grey and sunless,                               
    whistling whiplash whirled by tempest.                                
    The floods were freed and fallow waters                               
    sweeping seaward, swollen, angry,                                     
    filled with flotsam, foaming, turbid,                            
    passed in tumult. The tempest died.                                   
    Frost descended from far mountains                                    
    steel-cold and still. Stony-glinting                                  
    icehung evening was opened wide,                                      
    a dome of crystal over deep silence,                             
    over windless wastes and woods standing                               
    as frozen phantoms under flickering stars.                            

Rick Spell Nov 27, 2014 (21:42)