"But fearing that the other Valar might blame his work, he wrought in secret: and he made first the Seven Fathers of the Dwarves in a hall under the mountains in Middle-earth."
—The Silmarillion, Of Aulë and Yavanna
My children, you fill me with pain.
Think you that I am blind, that your father, the one you call Mahal, forgets you? Think you that your deeds pass unnoticed? Nay, I love my children, and I watch you from the shadows. I see your deeds.
You build, but in doing so, you destroy.
You find, but in doing so, you lose.
You laugh seldom and cry seldom, but it is Melkor who does not jest, Melkor who scorns all mirth and sees tears as weakness.
You craft your work from the Earth, but you do not love it—for you, it is simply a tool.
You are protective to the point of obsession, loving your kin and holding them dear, but you do not trust any other.
You make great works, but always mar them with some evil.
You fashion all metals and gems into beauty, but you are as a master to them, not a lover.
You create, but you lust for your creations.
You are the sons of stone, and yet you seek mastery over it.
I created you, I know, and my failings have been passed into you. But tell me, oh children, whence came this power-lust?