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Had there been a ring, once, destined to bring justice,
then maybe it would have been given to a hobbit, one
of stout heart and furry feet. Maybe the hobbit would
have defended it from the hollow-souled nazgul mounted
on their death-bleached stallions, and carried itsafely
through dark stone dwarven halls, through the brick,
wood and steel of the cities of men, and even the luminous
green forests of elves. And if that hobbit had been
given companions, how certain would his heart have been,
how fleet and sure his furry feet. Surely he would never
have faltered until you would have heard his hand knocking
on your door.
But the ring was not called justice, and no such ring
could ever have been given to any bearer. Even if such
a ring existed, even if a bearer could be found, the
tenebrous dwarven halls are endless and canot be traversed
by even the most courageous and wise, and even if this
were possible, no one could ever pass through all the
cities of men, infinite with noise and crowds, and even
if this barrier were breachable, beyond these cities
lie the elven forests, impenetrable and eternal, forever
unmoved by the concerns of mere mortals. And you will
wait in vain for the sound of a hand knocking on your
door, oblivious to the passage of months and years,
until you lie on your death-bed, still listening, and
you will die without hearing anything but the faltering
beat of your own heart.