A stain is one, and the flowing blood is one; now what argument is there, what discourse from the heart to the liver?

This profound couplet speaks of emotional resignation. The poet suggests that if a single stain (of pain or memory) is enough to keep one alive, and a single drop of blood is enough to be shed, then what argument is left? What dialogue remains between the heart and the liver (the deepest part of the self)? It’s the moment when pain is fully accepted, and the struggle for emotional logic ceases.