I heard them call the numbers from the crowd
And each stepped forwards to the edge
To take a plaited, tasseled cord
And lay me gently in my grave.
I’d stood too often in the past
And watched this scene
And watched the soil tossed upon a polished box,
(It sounds much louder from down here)
And then, from far above my head
I heard the pipes begin to play
And slowly lift me from this place.
And standing upright once again
I threw my drones across my shoulder
And matched him note for note.
We walked together, happy now
To leave that rotten, rotting body
To feel the joy of freedom
To feel the ground beneath my feet
To feel the wind against my face
To feel the air within my lungs.
We marched a slow march
My kilt swung upon my hips
My fingers caressing every note
He stopped; I didn’t; I couldn’t; I wouldn’t.
Marching on and on
Free to march upon my hill
To take my pipes
And play my tunes at will.