You Children could not comprehend the sorrow of the parting - or the joy of the descent.
The words of my dearest poet renders it ecstatic, bold Elemmírë even dares to scatter the rumble and shiver of my native tongue into her hymns to perhaps capture a sliver of the Warmth, the Light, the All that is Beyond.
It is too ambitious even for her. Spoken truly, even I barely remember.
The expansion and turmoil as we whirled, torn from the singularity of our beginning, still witless as any babe newborn among the Children have settled like a mist onto my mind. Even I cannot pierce it, who has flame enough in her to pour light into the farthest reaches of Eä, and flame enough to burn this Little Realm into a cinder. This is what Melkor saw in me. This is why I rejected him, why he fears me. Yet neither of us can return.
Some of you Eldar, Exiles as we are, though all by choice, may understand it, a little. When Galadriel sang her lament in her land of trees, of me who uplifted her hands like clouds and drowned her homeward path in mists, I thought she might know some of that longing. For although the time of her grief and mine do not match, the Eldar are frail and small and time passes slowly for them: I spent longer gathering myself together again out of the primordial elements of the expanding universe than the lifetime of her little planet. And yet, time has made supplicants of us both.
But the universe at last must be finite, and until that time my dear ones, Ilmarë my beloved starlight, and Manwë my lord and ever my comfort, thin that veil for me a little, always.