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(Within the Mists of the Sea + The Cloud)

The Genie that haunts the moonbeams spake to the Daemon of the Valley, saying, I am old, and forget much. Tell me the deeds and aspect and name of them who built these things of stone. And the Daemon replied, I am Memory, and am wise in lore of the past, but I too am old. These beings were like the waters of the river Than, not to be understood. Their deeds I recall not, for they were but of the moment. Their aspect I recall dimly, for it was like to that of the little apes in the trees. Their name I recall clearly, for it rhymed with that of the river. These beings of yesterday were called Man.

H. P. Lovecraft, Memory

The Cloud

Unknown to man at the pole there's a long-hidden pool:
Feared by the ancients its secret entices the fool.
Radiant fire that will burn with invisible flame;
Unworldly colours, as no hue that appears is the same.

Sacred the profit that the warlock did seek in his greed—
A craving so potent as to burn stone and make fossils bleed.
Poisons the waters in his effort to make deserts bloom,
That gleam in his eyes is the spell of disasters that loom.

Slow-spreading southward, the purple-ish cloud,
Beyond the horizon it thunders unloud.
Naught to be seen in disease-reeking gloom
As man does approach his Sarnathian doom.

Hidden from knowledge: the kernel, the canine-like beast
A howl in the desert, a bushfire, and cultists do feast.
The outsider-spirit, the herold of mad Azathoth—
Darkhaunting unmist that sold you what knowledge you've got.

Slow-spreading southward, the purple-ish cloud,
Beyond the horizon it thunders unloud.
Naught to be seen in disease-reeking gloom
As man does approach his Sarnathian doom.

Particles spreading the cat-poison of their decay,
Nourishes deathclouds with pow'r so devour they may.
Sooner or later the child his undoing will find—
Sooner than later; the one-eyed keeps leading the blind.

Counter the clockwise, a mist-boiling cloud;
The pale, tattered King dons his yellowish shroud.
Struck by a corpse-reeking shattering blow—
Miasma that cleanses so silently slow.

Spreading southward, the purple-ish cloud,
Beyond the horizon it thunders unloud.
Naught to be seen in disease-reeking gloom
As man does approach his Sarnathian doom.

The Purple Cloud by M. P. Shiel

A documentary about the Fukushima nuclear disaster, which inspired this song. (The disaster, not the docu.)

There Will Come Soft Rains by Sara Teasdale

Nyalathotep by H. P. Lovecraft

Not Like You Murdered Anyone >


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