A night or so ago while tossing in my bed I dreamed of hidden lore: The wise Tolkien so wrote—my vision thus informed—of dwarven lords, and one, who with the evil pow’r his lot he cast, in darkness dwelled.
That place I saw outlined as if a map, edges of darkness over darkness laid. And so I fell into this world: It was all doors and nothing more but bleached white doors. Up the stairs the dwarf pursued the dark lord’s promised prize; then coming to the first portal my mind’s eye wandered through: Into a room of doors I fell; and here the dwarf selected one, so through it gained for what his soul was priced.
Now deeper in we were, the doors would only deeper go. But now knowledge apart from what was seen I must explain: The vision showed two dwarven brides—the gift found in this place of dread—and revelation these regarded as a multitude from which a nation would be born to match, a man for man, the kingdoms of the dwarves. The two, I saw, in wickedness were wise, their heads adorned with foul magic.
I this recite in poor meter, a habit hard to break, but find the rhythm lends a flow to write the vision down. Yet part, it just a part, presented here, a rambling dream it was.
Tale Told 