Upon the highland’s breath I stand, Where heather sways by ancient hand, The stones remember knights of old, Their whispers woven in winds grown cold.
The sky is vast, the peaks austere, Yet in their silence, truth rings clear: That hearts may falter, swords may fall, But mountains hold the dreams of all.
Medieval Serenity
Upon the highland’s breath I stand,
Where heather sways by ancient hand,
The stones remember knights of old,
Their whispers woven in winds grown cold.
The sky is vast, the peaks austere,
Yet in their silence, truth rings clear:
That hearts may falter, swords may fall,
But mountains hold the dreams of all.
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