In the valley veiled in mourning, where the heather hides the pain, I walked with shadows as my kin, beneath the weeping rain. The pines, they sang a requiem, in tongues no priest could know, And every step upon the peat made memories below. Blow, ye haunted pipes of sorrow, wail for what the earth won’t tell. Raise the ghosts from hills and hollows, where the fallen warriors dwell. Let the wind ignite the ancient, let the night consume my skin — I am one with cursed silence, in the glen I bear my sin. I once was light, I once was breath, a spark within a choir, But now I wear this mourning shroud, stitched with ash and fire. The stones remember every name, the lichen knows their scars, And bagpipes echo through the dusk like blood beneath the stars. They march still — without flesh, without bone, Across the glen where I stand alone. Their cry is mine. Their war — my prayer. I am the wind. I am despair. Blow, ye cursed pipes of mourning, rend the sky and split the grave, Summon storms from Highland warnings, wash away what none could save. In the glen I cry forgotten, where no soul dare sleep within — But the bagpipes play forever… for the weight of what has been.
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