Beneath black peaks, upon the farther shore

Of that vast cleft over which the Spider-Lord

Spins his eternal web, stands the abhorred

Basilica of a dark Mage of yore -

The thousand-columned house of Haon-Dor.

Here a huge, mottled serpent lurks to ward

Against those who would encroach with spell or sword

To plunder archives of archaean lore.

 

Silent and strange, those gray unechoing halls

Hewn from the stone of Earth's most ancient past

Where faceless forms of smoke drift to and fro

And monstrous statues loom along the walls,

Limned by the eerie, icy lights that glow

Starlike from the shadowed ceilings high and vast.

THE END