The mist upon the loch awakens a feeling deep inside
And the traveller heads west, to where the eagle flies

As the golden wings of the sky bake mountain tops into crisp green horizons
His lucid oceans sing, blessed profoundly by Poseidon

The scythe of the river carves ruthlessly through the valley floor,
While waves weep into the shoreline, to paint the sand forevermore

The only land mystical enough that my thoughts can truly set sail
Where wind storms scar the bungalows, like hoof prints on its trails

Advance four seasons in all their fury but the Highlands stand unshaken.
Sew your mystery to my bones and let my soul awaken.

As I stare into the cancer of city lights I promise to return to you soon,
Where the pines whisper to each other and the mountain wind cries on, into the summer moon.