The work of your hands I cut into rags, along the seam you sewed in some sweat shop down south, though I am sure the clothing company will swear the working conditions are adequate.
I will use these pieces to wipe away the glue from bits of wood harvested from your country too.
In the end everything l do is connected to you.
Distant sister, shining like some forgotten star in the shadows of our existence, the threads you wove into the shirt I wore now gathered in a pile of rags serve as a reminder that much of who I am is because of you.
