Viman

I dream the ancient highlands, those rugged distant peaks,

the chilly sighing river-wash flowing through the sprawling trees;

of craggy grove-capped heights, and sullen, mist-wreathed glens,

a silent longing swells the heart, the yearning melody;

as climbing daunting stony towers wrought from wind-hewn rock,

and iron shards and broken years a legacy laments;

that spectral, weathered home.

I see those sacred highlands, the greying cairns that speak,

the fens and boggy mires trod by none but ghostly, fading feet;

of withering hail and gentle clouds, sunlight bereft of heat;

as winding threads of aeons past and sundered futures spent,

and stirring coronachs that onward echo whence inscribed on timeless stone;

a final, sombre tome.

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