Deep inside the wrinkles
of the Blue Mountains
Cold air sits upon
the primitives' throne

Inky echoes stroll the alleys
No living essence have ever
trespassed these halls

Sun's breathe becomes pale
as it touches the gloomy
foothills and crests  

Merely sprites wearing
mantles made of mist
dwell this mountainous region

Even rain seldom visits
to pierce the ghastly silence

Amidst the fog
forgotten tokens may hide
In riddles of old and
astral vague light