Along the shore the cloud waves break,
the twin suns paint blood red the sky.
Strange is the night where black stars rise
the waxen moons of Ixthil.
The shadows lengthen, but tower stranger still.
Our bodies dry and die on long forsaken terra.
We march into the skies.
The strange of dark Carcosa.
The idleness of whipping winds and thirst for flesh behind his grin.
The tattered flags of the pallid King,
the yellow sign – the d**h it brings.
Days behind that lead us blind,
marching on in single line
to the ends, ravenous,
search the skies for the lost star.
Songs that the Hyades shall sing,
where flap the tatters of the King.
Hastur, Hali, the sirens beckon me
to the shores of mist and d**h, Aldebaran, the world unseen.
We are lashed and scoured through the rot
blessings and prayers we ne’er sought.
Kindred souls from this time untold,
we march to dim Carcosa.
Leeches of the sacred fold
rituals in white and gold.
The yellow sign and blackened skies
our home of lost Carcosa.
We march into the skies.
The strange of dark Carcosa.