From Leng, where rocky peaks climb bleak and bare Under cold stars obscure to human sight, There shoots at dusk a single beam of light Whose far blue rays make shepherds whine in prayer. They say (though none has been there) that it comes Out of a pharos in a tower of stone, Where the last Elder One lives on alone, Talking to Chaos with the beat of drums. The Thing, they whisper, wears a silken mask Of yellow, whose queer folds appear to hide A face not of this earth, though none dares ask Just what those features are, which bulge inside. Many, in man’s first youth, sought out that glow, But what they found, no one will ever know.
Volviendo a casa..
En algún lugar en medio del mar...