Reality, the King of Idiot Gods,
Fumbles his puppets with a palsy'd hand:
Come leave him as he paws his wining clods,
And take the Golden Road to Samarkand!

H.P. Lovecraft

The Registan of Samarkand

The Frank's wonder grew; the cities of the West were hovels compared to this. Past academies, libraries and pleasure-pavilions they rode, and Ak Boga turned into a wide gateway, guarded by silver lions. There they gave their steeds into the hands of silk-sashed grooms, and walked along a winding avenue paved with marble and lined with slim green trees. The Scotsman, looking between the slender trunks, saw shimmering expanses of roses, cherry trees and waving exotic blossoms unknown to him, where fountains jetted arches of silver spray. So they came to the palace, gleaming blue and gold in the sunlight, passed between tall marble columns and entered the chambers with their gilt-worked arched doorways, and walls decorated with delicate paintings of Persian and Cathayan artists, and the gold tissue and silver work of Indian artistry.

Robert E. Howard

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License