Seasonal

In all the pleasances where Nyarlathotep was Lord,
Blossom the mournful immortelles alone;
The fallen red roses crumble, and are blown,
A snow of red blood, about the barren Sword of Truth;
Which can't be obtained, else the Ancient Ones are doomed.

The misty Sun is grown a dimmer Gold:
Only the red roses, the white rose forever seem death
As a sacrificial scourn to the Undead;
To tell and treasure, in a hellish dream,
The aureate fervour of the dawns of old.

Only for Us remains the memory
Of sutry Moons and summer Suns that were;
And We have found, where fallen red roses stir,
The immortelles that bloom mournfully.