I am the Silverlode, yet lacks speech in wrath.
A chief of the East walks the edge in my path.
A craftsman am I, whose craft, in the West,
Was seen by one carrying a craft of my best,
This craft I had given, (this craft, one of three)
To a lord of the coast, who then gave it to him.
At the hand of a craftsman like myself I would die-
Yet his craft mocked my own, you must note. Who am I?
ok...if you can't figure this one out - i'll be forever ashamed
Nobility of birth, yet died without glory
A fate deemed dire, unfolds his story
O! beloved husband, father, and son
Hardened thy heart, vainglorious one
These three he made, made he these three
Of light everlasting, surpassing the tree
Oath maker, death dealer, a people lost
Through evergreen land, the sea, to the frost
Divided they were, so too were his heart
For the love of the three, above all from the start
Woe becomes them, a war laid on them, a shadow forever leads them
So nigh his approach yet forever denied
As he tried, with his might, for on that night: he died