| Far over the Misty Mountains cold To dungeons deep and caverns old We must away, ere break of day To claim our long-forgotten gold. The pines were roaring on the height, The winds were moaning in the night. The fire was red, it flaming spread; The trees like torches blazed with light. | Más allá del frío de las Montañas Nubladas hasta mazmorras profundas y cavernas antiguas debemos irnos, lejos, antes del amanecer para reclamar nuestro oro largamente olvidado. Los pinos rugían en lo alto, los vientos gemían en la noche. El fuego era rojo, llameante se extendía Los árboles como antorchas de luz resplandecían. |
Las Montañas Nubladas son una cordillera de 1280 kilómetros en la Tierra Media, el mundo fantástico del escritor J. R. R. Tolkien (El Señor de los Anillos, El Hobbit, El Silmarillion, entre otros)El poema es uno de los que aparece en el primer capítulo del libro El Hobbit.
El poema completo (en inglés) a continuación:
Far over the misty mountains coldVia | Tolkien Gateway — Heirs of Durin
To dungeons deep and caverns old
We must away ere break of day
To seek the pale enchanted gold.
The dwarves of yore made mighty spells,
While hammers fell like ringing bells
In places deep, where dark things sleep,
In hollow halls beneath the fells.
For ancient king and elvish lord
There many a gleaming golden hoard
They shaped and wrought, and light they caught
To hide in gems on hilt of sword.
On silver necklaces they strung
The flowering stars, on crowns they hung
The dragon-fire, in twisted wire
They meshed the light of moon and sun.
Far over the misty mountains cold
To dungeons deep and caverns old
We must away, ere break of day
To claim our long-forgotten gold.
Goblets they carved there for themselves
And harps of gold; where no man delves
There lay they long, and many a song
Was sung unheard by men or elves.
The pines were roaring on the height,
The winds were moaning in the night.
The fire was red, it flaming spread;
The trees like torches blazed with light.
The bells were ringing in the dale
And men looked up with faces pale;
The dragon’s ire more fierce than fire
Laid low their towers and houses frail.
The mountain smoked beneath the moon;
The dwarves they heard the tramp of doom.
They fled their hall to dying fall
Beneath his feet, beneath the moon.
Far over the misty mountains grim
To dungeons deep and caverns dim
We must away, ere break of day,
To win our harps and gold from him!
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