The French Woman

She sits in the middle of the men Suitors, eager to have her, They hold no name. She is as pretty as the flowers they give her But as dead inside as they are too. Her mind, miles away from here, Placed in a golden field at sunset. Her wrists, fixed with invisible shackles; Supple lips tightly sewn shut. And no on will ever care Because she is just a French woman Who sits in the middle of men With suitors eager to have her.