Prison of Air

In the Western Woodlands of Fir Mac Og
where the grass is gray as the thickest fog
and the trees get up and move around
and the birds, in their nests, ne’er make a sound
a maiden walks alone ‘midst the trees
with nightblack curls and pale bare feet
with lips that have never shown a smile
and eyes the shade of blue greek tile
she does not sing, or laugh or speak
she looks so bold, yet seems so meek
she lives within the woods of Fir Mac Og
a maiden trapped within the fog.