Ash and Starlight

[Intro]
Footsteps on a road older than our maps.
Ash lifts, stars refuse to blink.
A burden warms the palm like a hidden ember.
“I will take the Ring, though I do not know the way.”

[Verse I]
Hearth smoke left behind. The hill falls away.
Names shrink to whispers the further we walk.
“All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”
The sky answers with a cold, patient blue.
We learn to read silence like a compass.

[Refrain]
Not triumph, not despair—only forward.
“Not all those who wander are lost.”
The line of our journey is a drawn sword.
Every mile asks for a smaller piece of fear.

[Verse II]
Hollows under mountains. Fire speaks in a language of doors.
A shadow takes shape where the bridge thins to a thought.
“You shall not pass!”
The stone keeps the echo; we keep the vow.

[Verse III]
Green banners in a wind that tastes of iron.
Horns unroll the morning across fields of decision.
“Deeds will not be less valiant because they are unpraised.”
We carry the day without asking it to carry us.

[Bridge]
When the path breaks into sand and rumor, we trade stories for courage.
“Even the smallest person can change the course of the future.”
A hand on a shoulder steadies the map.
“Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens.”
All right, then—let it darken. We will be the lantern.

[Verse IV]
Gardens return in memory: a gate latch, wet soil, a kettle’s small thunder.
There is a place called Home that keeps walking toward us from the end.
“There is some good in this world, and it’s worth fighting for.”
We sharpen hope on that sentence until it can cut the night.

[Finale]
The mountain opens its red mouth. The air is a storm of old oaths.
We unmake a crown, not with rage, but with resolve.
The weight leaves the hand, then the heart.
“The road goes ever on and on.”
We turn toward it—lighter, and still bound to each other.