This airy cage is foliage lined.
Its supple bars are intertwined.
The women show me where to tread.
I pluck and spin a cotton thread.
My woven home is hardwood spined.
The roots have poison deep confined.
We boil and dry before we grind.
I chew the bread but hope has fled
this airy cage.
The long flute's low hum numbs my mind.
A line of dancers slowly wind.
Their skins are painted black and red.
A shaman waves a shrunken head.
I think my love will never find
this airy cage.