Highland Baby.

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A Scottish land filled with brine water.

Only the memory of a bagpipes noise heard in the slaughter.

Once a scenic view now covered in a remnant battle.

A desolate place left for spirits to jeer and cackle.

Utopia, gone in an instant.

Bodies scarring the land, all of its existence.

From charred skin pointed bones spike out,

Unrecognisable, pummelled faces, left from the bout.

A whirling wind softly dips into the troughs of the marshy planes.

In one trough a young, innocent, infant remains.

The wind tickles the hairs on the back of his neck.

Anguish destroyed as the mothers come, equal in sorrow.

Picking up the dead with little time to morrow.

A woman's soft shaky hand reaches gently to the ground.

The lost little war baby is finally found

Covered in the blood of prideful men

Death is death, it comes time and time again.

But life finds a way to be new.

Through war, through pain, life finds a way through.

Letting out a cry bloodied in the strife.

A baby completes the cycle of the highland life.

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