After The Riddle of Strider in J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Fellowship of the Ring (link)
Canopy me quickly;
the underbrush is far too dry.
The quietest are reaching for the sky.
The liars are spreading rapidly.
I did like it very much,
so I put a great thing of beauty
on it. Not a ring, or an eye of fire,
but something higher. The last embers
of an archeopelagic pyre,
the pyrrhic strains and straits of this,
and every generation since's
new, meteoric Kristang Dreamwriter.
Paint me in the colours of your first firetiger;
only the Keirocene, and other Ages of lost Numenor
might burn that much brighter
in the tidelight, the wash of the great cliffs that
journey by night.
I was called Artakha once, and Manwë's greatest birthright.
Now call me whatever you want.
The White Tree of Gondor,
a Brahminy Kite, a condor
soaring high into the light
of Laurelin and Telperion's lineage.
You asked for a new Lion City, and I heard you:
here is inheritance.
Here is our new, unstoppable, incandescent Heritage.