I would take a cloth of white
and hold it with my spindle fingers.
A fabric thick and waded tight -
with weak stain of crimson that faintly lingers.
I'd hold to pale limb of welded flesh
the material bringing little relief,
longing for bandages, pure and fresh,
to mend your cuts and crushed belief.
Your skin is torn and weeps in the dark,
and I cannot prevent this. Yet I swear
that in the morning - cruel and stark -
I'll nurse you with cloth and knowing care.