Old in the days when Atlar rose to might.
And Chaldic magic ruled a world of gore.
The South Wind breathes a pestilential dirge.
It whispers of corruption and the tomb;
Of life in death, and mankind's biting urge
To gain the secrets hidden in Time's womb.
The West Wind keens a warning cry of hate,
As, from the boundless voids of sea and sky,
It sweeps upon a race bowed low by fate,
Yet striving still to gain the heights or die.