maybe some of that old tree's grandchildren were in that blaze... Chopped from under her by those hacking, slaying, destroying burarum- those orcs! Something must be done! Something will be done! To the Entmoot!
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There long the golden leaves have grown, upon the branching years, while here beyond the sundering seas, now fall the Elven-tears...
but if of ships I now would sing, what ship would come to me, what ship would bear me ever back, across so wide a sea?
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