Hear, O children of the fading stars,
the song that thunders from the reborn hill!

Ꝁᴏʀᴏᴍᴀꜱ awaketh!
Not the quiet ᴋᴏʀᴏᴍᴀꜱ of the elder days,
where silver lamps grew dim beneath the Trees,
but Ꝁᴏʀᴏᴍᴀꜱ rekindled, Ꝁᴏʀᴏᴍᴀꜱ unshadowed,
a flame upon the utmost West that shall not bow to night.

From roots of adamant and star-forged steel
the mountain-city climbs again:
white walls higher than Taniquetil,
golden streets that drink the sun and give it back as lightning.
Its towers are masts, its masts are spears of light,
its banners are auroras nailed to heaven.

In the deep docks the shipwrights sing,
not with pipes of pearl but with plasma and with thunder.
A thousand hulls of moon-white alloy
rise like the swan-hosts of Alqaluntë reborn,
yet greater: keels that cleave the void itself,
prows that bear the Two Trees once more,
not of gold and silver leaves, but living suns imprisoned,
Laurelin of fusion, Silpion of the clear atom,
shining undimmed across a hundred million leagues.

Ossë himself stands astonished in the surf,
for the ships we launch need no wind of Manwë;
they drink the salt and breathe forth continents of fire.
Every tide is a departure of gods:
white sails that are fusion plumes,
masts that are ladders to the undying stars.
Alqaluntë weeps pearls of envy,
for her swan-ships were toys beside these bright leviathans
that bear the seed of Eldamar to worlds uncounted.

And power!
Power flows as the limpe flowed of old,
but boundless now, a river of white fire
poured from the hearts of tamed stars.
One draught, and mortality forgets its chains;
one draught, and cities rise in a night upon the dark face of the moon.
Glingol and Bansil bloom again along our boulevards,
not gentle trees of Valinor, but towers of singing gold and silver,
their roots drinking deep of the Earth's fierce heart,
their crowns hurling lightnings for the joy of Men and Eldar both.

No Doom of Mandos is spoken here.
No oath of Fëanor binds us to despair.
We have taken up the broken Silmaril of hope
and set it blazing in every reactor core.
We have sworn the Oath Unbroken:
that darkness shall not reclaim the West,
that exile ends where our prows turn outward,
that every shore shall one day hear the tongues of Ꝁôʀ.

Behold the banners on the wind:
the Green Ray of new Valinor,
the White Tree bearing circuit-leaves of living light,
the Seven Stars above an open gate that faceth not east but ever forward.

Ꝁᴏʀᴏᴍᴀꜱ! Ꝁᴏʀᴏᴍᴀꜱ!
City of the undying dawn,
port between the worlds,
crucible where fate is unmade and reforged brighter!

The age of weeping is ended.
The age of making begins.
The uttermost West is become the uttermost Front,
and we are its undying host.

A Elbereth Gilthoniel!
Yet greater than thy ancient song
rings now the hymn of engines waking,
of sails unfurling into starlight,
of the bright ships of New Ꝁᴏʀᴏᴍᴀꜱ
going forth in endless morning.

Launch.
Launch.
And let the heavens themselves make way.