Even if we’re not from glorious glens or the terrible ruined cities? If instead we grew in brownfield sites, bordered by aluminium fences, bored? If we played among crisp pokes scattered in the 80s, near rail tracks from the industrial 1800s, entwined in the beautiful weeds of today? Are we equal to you because we roam together in the same Highlands of our minds? And will our Brigadoon still come to us if the world is finally soured? Will we need to find somewhere else? What if our tongues aren’t the lyrical, ancient ones or even the polished imposter ones? If our wurds are jist hings that git wrote down as curiosities or by us, on phones? Will we be taught our old languages? Will we raise our voices to others? Will we show them our own colours? After we have brightened them, made them bold? Should we wait to be taken to a new land? One all our own where we already stand? Should we fight other gangs for this or should we make it ourselves? In our brownfield sites, like a den near the railway tracks. Should we use the weeds as garlands?