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Poem

As a war journalist, my new assignment 
took me to the side-line of the Elfin war zone,
where I found an old tavern,
a long-time community center for the travelers and locals,
flocking to meet, share stories and unwind
in the cozy rustic milieu,
that preserved the essence of social camaraderie
and congenial hospitality with a touch of familiarity.

The patrons heartily drank pints of chilled beer,
that the owner proudly called Old Ale,
brewed specially and aged properly
to get the strength and the darkness
with the sweet malty flavor of dried fruits
that I found immensely invigorating.

I heard the staff and patrons converse animatedly
about the current status of the on-going war not far,
where the Elves, the oldest Middle-earth species, 
were fiercely engaged with Morgoth and his clan 
for hundred years, with Feanor as their leader,
who found natural ally with the humans,
and was supported by the Elven adventurers.

I came to know that many long-lived Elves
had grown weary of the long-drawn war,
and had returned to Aman where the Elves had settled.
Those who stayed in the Middle-earth
were close to their long-cherished goal 
of establishing their own kingdom.

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