Down in the valley, near the field where nothing grew,
A hooded figure stands, so silent and so still.
An aeon passes, he waits forever here,
On the bank where the dead leaves shiver,
Where his heart was slain when the hell-Orc slew
His Love, his life, his golden Boromir.


The dead trees whisper in darkening sighing air
To the dark-robed figure,solitary, weeping there,
"Weep not, despair will never bring him here;
But in your heart he lives. His hand in holding thine
Will always make your life's sole reason shine.
He lives within you, with your soul, your golden Boromir."