Youtube. Broadcasting Myself. Edition 37. Bilbo's song.
"Do you write music?"
Heard this question numerous times and "no" is the most frequent answer. I arrange, I cover but when it comes to actually composing... I can't say I composed more than a handful of musical pieces during all this time.
However, this release is my original composition. A very special one for me, which was born almost at the same time as my "Finanwen" alter ego.
It feels amazing to get back to those days through my memories. Because even though I've never been part of the role-playing fandom, my tolkienist days were full of magic.
Bilbo's song
The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring. Book Two, Chapter III: The Ring Goes South.
I sit beside the fire and think
of all that I have seen,
of meadow-flowers and butterflies
in summers that have been;
Of yellow leaves and gossamer
in autumns that there were,
with morning mist and silver sun
and wind upon my hair.
I sit beside the fire and think
of how the world will be
when winter comes without a spring
that I shall ever see.
For still there are so many things
that I have never seen:
in every wood in every spring
there is a different green.
I sit beside the fire and think
of people long ago,
and people who will see a world
that I shall never know.
But all the while I sit and think
of times there were before,
I listen for returning feet
and voices at the door.
Heard this question numerous times and "no" is the most frequent answer. I arrange, I cover but when it comes to actually composing... I can't say I composed more than a handful of musical pieces during all this time.
However, this release is my original composition. A very special one for me, which was born almost at the same time as my "Finanwen" alter ego.
It feels amazing to get back to those days through my memories. Because even though I've never been part of the role-playing fandom, my tolkienist days were full of magic.
Bilbo's song
The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring. Book Two, Chapter III: The Ring Goes South.
I sit beside the fire and think
of all that I have seen,
of meadow-flowers and butterflies
in summers that have been;
Of yellow leaves and gossamer
in autumns that there were,
with morning mist and silver sun
and wind upon my hair.
I sit beside the fire and think
of how the world will be
when winter comes without a spring
that I shall ever see.
For still there are so many things
that I have never seen:
in every wood in every spring
there is a different green.
I sit beside the fire and think
of people long ago,
and people who will see a world
that I shall never know.
But all the while I sit and think
of times there were before,
I listen for returning feet
and voices at the door.
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