“The Secret of the Hyrkanian Mountains”
(A Poem of Hyboria)
Where the Hyrkanian peaks in silence brood,
’Neath veils of storm and whispering wood,
There lies a vale no mortal sees—
A cradle shrouded by ancient trees.
The winds cry tales through frozen stone,
Of riders lost, of kings dethroned;
The moonlight drapes the peaks in flame,
Yet none return who speak its name.
Beyond the passes, cold and sheer,
A silver river winds unclear—
Its song, a ghostly siren’s plea,
That lures the bold eternally.
For in that valley, hushed and deep,
Where time and memory both sleep,
A treasure glows with spectral fire—
Not gold, but something souls desire.
A crown once worn by Eastern lords,
Forged in blood and ancient wars;
Its gems hold whispers, soft and dire—
Dreams of power, wrapped in fire.
But woe to he whose heart would claim
The valley’s prize, the crown of flame;
For shadows guard what men revere,
And doom awaits the treasure-seer.
So let the Hyrkanian storms enthrall,
The brave, the cursed, the doomed to fall;
For where the mountains kiss the sky,
The secret valley will never die.
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