Yarn To Body
I feel his hands, brushing through my hair
And gently, like a pendulum, they sway.
Pulling and pushing and tugging at my locks
Straightening out of what is the pride of a Faroese.
Wild, wild, my fleece is wild,
Gently he picks, his combing is mild.
I’m neat, I’m clean, and I’m free of dust,
I’m raised from the base so that . . .