It was in the pale garden of Zaïs; The mist-shrouded gardens of Zaïs, Where blossoms the white nephalotë, The redolent herald of midnight. There slumber the still lakes of crystal, And streamlets that flow without murm’ring; Smooth streamlets from caverns of Kathos Where brood the calm spirits of twilight. And over the lakes and the streamlets Are bridges of pure alabaster, White bridges all cunningly carven With figures of fairies and daemons. Here glimmer strange suns and strange planets, And strange is the crescent Banapis That sets ’yond the ivy-grown ramparts Where thickens the dust of the evening. Here fall the white vapours of Yabon; And here in the swirl of vapours I saw the divine Nathicana; The garlanded, white Nathicana; The slender, black-hair’d Nathicana; The sloe-ey’d, red-lipp’d Nathicana; The silver-voic’d, sweet Nathicana; The pale-rob’d, belov’d Nathicana. And ever was she my belovèd, From ages when Time was unfashion’d; From days when the stars were not fashion’d Nor any thing fashion’d but Yabon. And here dwelt we ever and ever, The innocent children of Zaïs, At peace in the paths and the arbours, White-crown’d with the blest nephalotë. How oft would we float in the twilight O’er flow’r-cover’d pastures and hillsides All white with the lowly astalthon; The lowly yet lovely astalthon, And dream in a world made of dreaming The dreams that are fairer than Aidenn; Bright dreams that are truer than reason! So dream’d and so lov’d we thro’ ages, Till came the curs’d season of Dzannin; The daemon-damn’d season of Dzannin; When red shone the suns and the planets, And red gleamed the crescent Banapis, And red fell the vapours of Yabon. Then redden’d the blossoms and streamlets And lakes that lay under the bridges, And even the calm alabaster Glow’d pink with uncanny reflections Till all the carv’d fairies and daemons Leer’d redly from the backgrounds of shadow. Now redden’d my vision, and madly I strove to peer thro’ the dense curtain And glimpse the divine Nathicana; The pure, ever-pale Nathicana; The lov’d, the unchang’d Nathicana. But vortex on vortex of madness Beclouded my labouring vision; My damnable, reddening vision That built a new world for my seeing; A new world of redness and darkness, A horrible coma call’d living. So now in this coma call’d living I view the bright phantons of beauty; The false, hollow phantoms of beauty That cloak all the evils of Dzannin. I view them with infinite longing, So like do they seem to my lov’d one; So shapely and fair like my lov’d one; Yet foul from their eyes shines their evil; Their cruel and pitiless evil, More evil than Thaphron and Latgoz, Twice ill for its gorgeous concealment. And only in slumbers of midnight Appears the lost maid Nathicana, The pallid, the pure Nathicana, Who fades at the glance of the dreamer. Again and again do I seek her; I woo with deep draughts of Plathotis, Deep draughts brew’d in wine of Astarte And strengthen’d with tears of long weeping. I yearn for the gardens of Zaïs; The lovely lost garden of Zaïs Where blossoms the white nephalotë, The redolent herald of midnight. The last potent draught I am brewing; A draught that the daemons delight in; A draught that will banish the redness; The horrible coma call’d living. Soon, soon, if I fail not in brewing, The redness and madness will vanish, And deep in the worm-peopled darkness Will rot the base chains that hav bound me. Once more shall the gardens of Zaïs Dawn white on my long-tortur’d vision, And there midst the vapours of Yabon Will stand the divine Nathicana; The deathless, restor’d Nathicana Whose like is not met with in living. words : HP Lovecraft - date unknown.

There came unto the land of Mnar a shadow cast a shape of secret symbols by the hour All sacred eyes turned to the sky in vain attempts to speculate the meaning from on high “We hold the keys of knowledge past Your present futures rest upon our first rate simulcast” As hours followed, day by day The holiest did meditate To isolate the fate that might await By now the shepherds cross had won and Mnar lay broken a wasteland in the sun Too late to save too many lost ones Who by the hand of fate were placed into harms way - too late to run The cursed city tried to take me amidst the darkened streets the shadows did betray me And often lost, alone I wander It seems the only way to truth is known to everyone but me And on I seek to find a city A modern day Narcissus I a search for ruins standing nearly where I last bid my Mnar goodbye But all I see is desolation and sense a loss I can’t explain There are no ruins, there is nothing to carry on except a name I saw imaginary daemons the ghost of long lost devil eyes I entered into this agreement to help destroy one final lie And so the name of Mnar will die here behind these lips of firm resolve It’s fading memory will appear as thin gray dust which soon dissolves

As an empty page it stands before me Lost and never lost and once so lonely Ghost Town...in the distance Fog Bound Lost within the mist your daemons hide and twist alone Climb the ancient mountainside at night Watch as shadows gather in the half light Desecrate the altar with their Acolyte...their Acolyte I’ve read that hoary manuscript I’ve seen forbidden festival But none prepared me for the sight of locking horns with death at night. The mist surrounded crumbling house held court for we had crossed too far in mortal knowledge : mortal time I curse the day I started on this climb.

(The Festival: Arrival) The Yuletide season was upon New England as I walked crushing snow ‘neath the heel of my boot To the ancient city of my ancient people attending festival of ancient roots As the ocean crashed pounding on the stones separating sea from ancestral lands I beheld the city only dreamed of lately this modern son embraced Kingsport’s hand Once a hundred clans knew the ancient ways of the rites that were held once a century Now the poor and lonely of the dark tradition the last to bear responsibility To uphold the promise of the first forefather continue teaching in the ancient way So they sent me East to the misty dawn to attend the festival of Hallow Day I saw vanes and steeples, willow trees and graves where the stones were set in 1692 And the tree of legend where my kinsmen hung as convicted witches which I now know was true I walked toward the city and I listened — all was still — No Christmas season songs were sung, no candled windowsills I reasoned these were Puritans, I was not too dismayed since logic said instead of song they likely knelt and prayed I passed the dim—lit farmhouses while walking to the place that ancient custom led me to — on Green Lane #8 I must admit I thought it strange that in that fallen snow No footprints I could find or make above it or below In anxious haste I knocked Instantly it opened Deaf and dumb he motioned The Festival is soon He pointed to a table, 3 books sat waiting I chose the first one (with hesitation) I read the title (The Necronomicon) inviting me to alchemy I read with horror the incantations I closed the book and closed their demonstrations when handed cloak and hood to keep me warm from Winter’s tear The time of Festival was here! (The Festival: Procession) The candles killed we left the house for streets as quiet as death to join with many other cloaked and hooded marionettes And now the streets so crowded you’d expect a mighty roar but silence was the only sound (which seemed to scare me more) Down corridors on toward churchyard hill Eyes of the night cold as ice watching still Top of the spire seemed to point to a star Aldeberan seemed so near yet so far So following my voiceless guide but straying to the rear I watched the others ooze into that church of yesteryear When finally I crossed that threshold wond’rinq where they’d gone I saw the alter’d opened leading to oblivion Now weak from fear I took my place descending spiral stairs which tunneled through the very heart of Kingsport unaware Perhaps a mile maybe two into the crypt I found a world of decay as I slipped into a nightmare and on farther down Desperately seeking escape from this hideous ground Then suddenly I saw a lurid shimmering of light A river underground of oily water black as night And in the middle rose a leprous fire of greenish flame I watched them as they worshipped it in spirit and in name (The Festival: Escape) My subterranean vision shone, a noisome flute did drone And suddenly the sound of wings ascending from below The beasts I saw were hybrid things a madness to behold And in that fire of greenish flame I shivered from the cold My guide stepped forth to worship and fulfill the ancient game And all the rest performing rites of long forgotten name He held the Necronomicon up high for all to see As one by one each celebrant would mount a winged beast But not me — I wondered what to do Could I be a mutiny or just a long forgotten clue? My host now motioned me to choose a beast to make my flight But I resisted seeking to escape this hoary rite Blocked the stairs and grabbed me as his waxen mask did fall No human head behind it I dove into that river before the madness of my screams could bring the charnel legions down to feed on me! “The nethermost caverns are not for the fathoming of eyes that see for their marvels are strange and terrific. Cursed the ground where dead thoughts live new and oddly bodied, evil the mind that is held by no head. Happy the tomb where no wizard hath lain and happy the town at night whose wizards are all ashes For it is of old rumors that the soul of the devil—bought haste not (from his charnel clay) but fats and instructs the very worm that gnaws. ‘Till out of corruption horrid life springs and the dull scavengers of earth wax crafty to vex it and monstrous to plague it. Great holes secretly are digged where earths pores ought to suffice And things have learnt to walk that ought to crawl.” Final quoted lyric: HP Lovecraft -1923