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She Who Weeps
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The Weeper

In after years, the Children will say that she entered the world late – unhappy need of Arda Marred.

So they will say, and she'll lament the fading of their wisdom, as she does all worthy things.

For she was ere the Beginning, will be beyond the End. When Eru dwelt alone, she was with him – no child of His thought, but the pity of His heart for the Void.

Before the Light, she was and wept, and when He spoke, He called her by name. He sent her forth into , His gift, His strength, His emissary: Sweet Sister Sorrowing.

What Is, is good; what is, is good. Eru willed them: brave beings that unfold to chance becoming. Yet not all that's good can be gathered. To each its time and turn, yet to be is untimely, risky, wounding.

Nienna sees the souls of things, consoles their boisterous bruising, mourns their passing in innocent, self-giving strife – wrests place and meaning for them. Her memory is boundless.

In the wilderness she goes weeping, watering all the world – gifts of love in salt and soothing. The elemental spirits find harmony like gravity; the joyous plants, toadstools to trees, grow love, breathe Amen.

Yet speakers need another way – the chance of grief and pardon that she is. The darkness of a ruined tree is yet innocent decay. But of speakers, there are Wise and Wicked, that in every soul unite in one will – are chanced in every instant.

For every instant's destined for History that's neither good nor bad, but ever without innocence. Fate, the fatality in every fatalism, lurks within its depths, suffocating stitch of time.

Breath comes in the hitch – teary breaching towards renewal and redemption.

'Tis war. Thus Nienna arms herself in suffering with just eyes, goes forth to struggle...

Might, Lamps, Trees, Night – Ashes, ashes, they all fall down.

Life, Kin, Love, Light – All lie bleeding by the waves.

Shades rise up and hopes fall down, on eyeless Fate all run aground – for history's all an open grave, that counts no cry and heeds no rave.

But to each Nienna bends her ear, and with them to the slaughter goes – she knows the number of their tears, the face of every one laid low.

Heart to heart, move hand to hand in open, selfless outreach – so she pleads and teaches, and batters the heart's shutters. For that is hope that breaks with fate – child of grief and pity. Her labor goes from mourn to morn, and thence to joy in the unclenched fist.

Nay, not all tears are evil: for as Eru loves and overflows, mourning becomes Nienna.


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