They stole the daylight, stole her throne,
cast Fian down upon cold stone.
They think her nothing, think her beaten,
think the dungeon holds her in.
But hers the will which woke the dead,
hers the wrath, the wolves' wild tread.
They think that's her: defeated, lamed,
thrown to the floor, tethered, tamed;
think her trapped, her limbs bound tight,
think the blindfold stops her sight.
But hers the will that does not yield,
hunting allies, eyes tight-sealed,
finding in far-off desert sands
a beast to bend to her commands.
Her life the cost to spur that beast
to wreak, in time, her vengeance feast.
Hers the guile her bonds to loose,
hers the hand to knot the noose.
Hers the airless swinging death.
Hers the rain, the wind's wet breath.
(First published in Star*Line)