With ease and comfort I trim your nails, on the hunt for trading goods I set the sails. The first, small and fine, the second, mighty by design.

Springing from the ground like a flower, I might imprison a royal power, Or simply tell you the hour. Fall off me and your outlook is dour.

What loses its head in the morning , but gets it back at night?

Beneath the earth where sunlight dies, with stone for walls and barred confines. No open sky, no freedom near, a place of shadows, dread, and fear.

I can be curled with a blade but I have no hair. I can be satin or silk, but I’m not a dress. I’m the final touch on a present, yet I’m the first thing torn away. What am I?