In the farthest hills of Taur-nu-fuin there twists a road. At its crumbling end lies a pool, pure and cool and deep to all infinity. Rising from it stands a prophetic obelisk, carved by sheol knows not what creatures. Etched in that stark script a cyclic verse - the song of the exile of all.
There is a place - of our fathers and of our sons
There is a place - of our life and of our death
There is a place - where the earth is of our flesh and our flesh is of the earth
There is a place - where in some tomorrow we will stand anew
Each morning the sun reaches down and lights upon it, beaming from some high notched crag.
Read it in this hour, read it just before the dawn, for passing cross the sky no sun’s light will reach its mysteries again.
Read it and remember, for by it you shall see the highest road.