To me, Eorlingas!

He is hewn to the ground, and the earth knows no difference between royal blood and that of less lineage.
The River cares not that it sweeps his life away in its current.
The sky does not weep for him, nor does the sun know that its face shines down as the Second Line’s heir lays dying.
The moon will not mark his absence, when it climbs into the night sky.
The wind continues on its journey eastward.

Let me lie here - to keep the Fords til Éomer comes!