When the old grow old and the young grow old, the horn of my master but dead shall stay, his horn shall stay when his soul has faded. The horn but burned soul has failed bones shall crumbled, yet thy iron horn remans, in the land of mordor where the shadows lie. Cries of the dead wailing, howling in the hollows and in the caves and then the noise stopped. In death they do lie, forever wailing, formed from the blood of the dead. Reformed in death as rattling creatures but bones are crumbling, time is fading in the land of mordor where the shadows lie.
By Ari Boughton-Thomas
Tell me more tell me more I nee to know also I was reading Tyla(my brother) and he loved it.
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