Before the stars had learned to shine, Or wind had found a path or sign, A pale stone slept beneath the night, Alone upon a sea of white.

Then from the dark an ember fell, And where it struck, none now can tell What passed between the spark and stone— For neither wished to yield the throne.

The ember burned. The cold held fast. Their silence broke the dark at last. A silver crack, a ringing tone— And earth awoke from seed and bone.

The mountains rose in ordered rows; By dusk, one turned. No singer knows What hand had tipped its crown aside, Or why the distant valleys sighed.

The rivers took their measured ways, Then wandered through the hills for days. One climbed a slope, one split in three, And one returned to mock the sea.

The forests grew beneath the skies, With crooked limbs and watchful eyes. The first stood straight, the next leaned low, As though they knew what none should know.

Then fire rose to crown the day, While frost became the moon’s pale ray. Yet heat still sleeps in mountain stone, And ice within the flame is known.

From ash came birds, from mud came beasts, From silver seas came scales and feasts. At last came folk with blood and breath, With names for life and laws for death.

They marked the roads and raised the wall, And swore each stone would never fall. But signs turned round before the dawn, And doors led where no room had gone.

So Eryndor was shaped and spun, By ordered frost and restless sun. And when spring ice begins to part, A bright laugh stirs beneath the heart.

The wise call this the river’s sound. The hills say nothing, curved and round. For still the world is being made— A careful line, a crooked shade.