All in this mottie, misty clime,
I backward mus'd on wasted time,
How I had spent my youthfu' prime,
An' done nae-thing,
But stringing blethers uo in rhyme
For fools to sign.

I cannot be more agreed with my dear Mr. Burns. Specially, because I have spent an hour trying to understand this scottish jumble for an hour without succes (just a few words, ocasionally sentences, and by the time I could understand the whole thing I was so tired and frustrated that I did not fancy poetry or methaporicals meanings and stuff like that).

So, I have decided that maybe after a year being in Scotland I may begin to feel the songs of her most loved and rebelleous son, but today I just leave the books in their place (the shelves) and I will go outside.

Today we have sun!

That is most beautiful than all the scottish poems. No words can describe the happiness I feel. No rhymes. No Burns.