Anything made of glass,
held up in my palms;
speak not of my own heart—
unworthy it was;
to be splintered; once upon a night,
drenched in rain—
filtered in your glass;
my tar, coal black.

.

Unworthy was my carcass;
to be buried in peace
I took to sewing—
your splintered soul,
so very worthy
of my hands to graze.

LOKI