Graft

Graft

In quiet rooms where surgeons mend,
A needle pierces, thread will blend—
A piece of skin, a sliver taken,
From donor’s flesh, a life awoken.

The graft takes hold, a silent pact,
New capillaries weaving fact;
Each stitch a promise, soft and true,
That broken parts can grow anew.

Yet graft can mean a darker hue—
A hand that slips a coin askew,
Where favour’s bought in shadowed lanes,
And trust is sold for private gains.

Both meanings curl around the same:
One heals the wound, the other maims.
In Britain’s tongue we spell it clear—
“Graft” can mend, or corruption steer.

So let us choose the kindly kind,
Where tissue joins and hearts entwined,
And leave the back‑alley deal to rust,
For graft at best should heal, not bust.