It's about the nine months I spent in the highlands of Northern Scotland, in a mountainous region called Ducgarret, in Black Fold, just over a ridge from Lock Ness. It was in the solitude of the small croft that, as far as I can remember, I really began to write poetry that would be put to music. It was there in the incessant wind that I began to realize that I could, as it were, get the song, there in the high country where the neon lights of Inverness could be seen gleaming in the distance at night under the dancing Aurora Borealis.
In reality it wasn't just little Inverness, but all the cities I was to visit in my travels that this lament is about. Cities like Paris, Jakarta, San Francisco, Sydney, Melbourne, Auckland, New York, Suva, Philadelphia, Huelva, Marseilles and many others besides where I brought something back from the windy highlands that had reality; not contrived; not made up. I sang the song in the form of many songs on the street, in subways, fairgrounds, underground passageways and so on, but all were too busy to listen. Well, not all. Some listened. A few. But to no avail.
Aggregates of persons in the millions all seemingly kept from some higher calling somewhere beyond the confines of those low-level security prisons, the "cities".