You Shall Not Pass!

By shadow crowned and fire shod, it came—

An ancient terror, born of flame.

In halls where dwarves once carved the stone,

A deeper evil made its throne.

Beneath the peaks of Caradhras’ crown,

In Khazad-dûm, now fallen down,

It slumbered long in darkened tomb,

A wrathful wraith in timeless gloom.

But greed unearthed what should have stayed,

In mithril mines the price was paid.

A roaring shadow, vast and dire,

With whips of flame and eyes of fire.

No mortal blade could make it bleed,

No prayer could halt its vengeful speed.

Through Dwarrowdelf its fury fell,

A storm from out the depths of hell.

Yet on the Bridge of Khazad-dûm,

A light defied impending doom.

The Grey Pilgrim stood, staff in hand,

One soul to stem the burning sand.

“You shall not pass!” the wizard cried,

As flame and shadow dared to stride.

The bridge broke deep, the chasm wide—

Both fell beneath the world inside.

So legend grew of that dark flame,

The Balrog, with no given name.

A tale of fire, of fate and fight,

Of shadow slain by final light.