To what, for what, do I adhere?
To mend again a broken heart,
from shear to shear, shaving comfort off sheep-
collecting solace, to bring near.

But when my hands are cracked and my blood has seeped through,
who then,
can serve this purpose again?

When my blood has been spun into a thousand weaving threads,
may its embers provide for you
Warmth
in a tightly knit wrap.

But if you reach for me then, only,
when our peace has been dyed and my body has run cold-
please, do not panic.
I suppose, it must only be a catnap.