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A friend’s reply, cutting deep. “Do you think
Before you speak?” He turned, how slow, a face
Of stone, with weather beaten eyes. “I know
I spoke too much, too quick.” All said at pace.
All said too glib. Does Truth ride out so swift?
Or is he clothed in rags of Lies, disguis’d?
His bitter gift, that Mendicant, a cure
to lives bereft, which takes by time and Grace.

In weather weary eyes I spy the sign
Of caring Truth. He speaks to me by You.