A stubborn rock in the sea

With mist sitting low to hide the green

Hills ring with a history unending

With no one ever to admit a beginning

A place she dreamed of

Calling home but never dared

A place of pale skin and

Centuries of echoes

Dancers and singers

Poets and drinkers

Rain filled streets home to

Lost sons who believe the stories

Here the world isn’t ending.

A past of dancing gaiety

A suffering bondage to the land

A pipe’s long lonely moan

And an eye turned toward the hills

Still green across the wide blue

That separates time from place

A dream no Highland woman

Would surrender.