Sat upon the docks, the elleth pulled an old piece of parchment from the folds of her robe. She was surprised somebody still cared about the tradition of the lanterns. On the parchment was written short poem, half of it seemingly ripped away; lost lore of a time when the name Edhellond meant a living, breathing community and not a pile of rubble. With voice no louder than a whisper she recited, as the flower-lanterns made their way down the river:
"Anthon i narn hen estel a threvaded anden
Boe annin mened; Aníron mened na Valinor
Naurloth, Naurloth
Av-‘osto; avo dhavo am môr
Naurloth, Naurloth
I glawar dhîn mhîr mhin faer nîn...
Galad-na-Naur, ne man menathab?
Naurloth Naurloth
Menimh na Valinor----------"
"I present to you this tale of hope and a journey
I must leave, I want to go to Valinor
Fireflower, Fireflower
Don’t be afraid, don’t yell to darkness
Fireflower, Fireflower
Your light is a treasure in my soul...
Light of the fire, when will we leave?
We are going to Valinor----------"
