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The Great Old Ones
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Al Azif
In this desert for 40 days
Voices tell me the ways
I first believed in demons, but it is not
They are older units, real
They ask me to write a book, cursed
If they will let me die of thirst
(They ordered me)
Sitting on the edge of a dune, they dictated to me
Like whispers of Jinns they force me to write
Incantations to invoke these gods
Cursed bible, obscene words
Alone in the desert I lose my sanity
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And I write the end of humanity
No place to escape
I'm no more than a shape
'Listen to us poor human, your book should begin with thisThat is not dead which can eternal lie,
And with strange aeons even death may die'
I write pages and pages,
My hand is bleeding, for this book of rages
Now they found me in the crowd
Invisibles, they devour me
I would end up in a shroud
No one can help me
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