Upon a hill of standing stones
Najin he sits cold, wet, alone
This perilous path has worn him thin
But he'll see it to the end
Haunting him, the things he did
And the Ghost of Yib'Ishnagarib
To find the cure he has sacrificed his life
Since the day the wasting sickness took his son and wife
He must find the one who appeared with the healing hand
And force him to understand
Remembering what the stranger said
In the city of Yib'Ishnagarib
Leave the dead be, save the living
This hand shall never touch the other side
As it drifts through the sands of time
Onward, past the regions dark and cold
Beyond the wastelands of old
For the love of his wife and of his son
He'll demand from the healer
Their resurrection
