Where goes the man, so weak and frail,
Whose back is bent, whose beard is long?
Where go the old? Where does he sail?
Does he yet speak or sing the song?
I go to lost Carcosa, child,
where stars are black as night.
I go to see the tattered robe
and yet a stranger sight.
I go, my child, where twin suns set,
where shadows stretch and sigh.
I go, my love, to end, to rest,
I go to close my eyes.
There goes the man wearing the mask,
the pallid mask that is no mask,
for man is dust, from dust he came,
and but in dust may scrawl his name.
Tale Told 