True, I am a Pict.
Those who used woad for their art.
Flaunted their fierceness.
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My first petroglyph
The tall Craw Sten of Rhynie
Created with care.
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When one carves with care
The chisel must always work
Away from weak points.
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Such slow labored toil
Each petroglyph an art's work
Signed with date and name.
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History in stone
Cementing the real true facts
Not lost in the Cloud.
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Stones to be passed on
From generation to next
How long to survive?
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I labored so hard
Travelling from festival
To the very next.
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Carved more than ten hours
Then took an evening's rest
Woke to start again.
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The Rhynie tall stone
Showed the Salmon / Pictish Beast
The hallowed two forms.
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The Pictish herb woad
A mustard with blue leaf dye
Spread upon the skin.
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So many patterns
Wolves, eagles, mirrors and such
Giving strength to live.
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Carved Dunadd footstep
Each chief poured soil into it
Proclaimed loyalty.
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The kingdom stayed strong
From year five to eight hundred
Then carvings did cease.
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Lowlanders came strong
And as with all great kingdoms
The Picts interbred.
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Now they are silent
Known only from standing stones
Real but as soft ghosts.
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Do you wish to carve
Be ready to lift great weights
Shifting much around.
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Complete work of art
Difficult to pass it on
New owner must know.
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To pass on art form
Need a devoted student
With patience and strength.
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Know these stones will last
Far beyond any lifetime
Legacy remains.
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So may my children
Gaze upon these stones with pride
Feeling my presence.
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