Near the bespoken animals, your face,
Wide, before words, with its unknowing smile,
Asks of me at your bedside, yet a while
Not to reflect.
With the reflection, grace
Manifests, and the wound demands the side.
Animals stare uncomprehendingly;
We talk together, and are crucified.
Bent by intelligent language in your blood,
That from your nature into knowledge burns,
You must reach out to that intolerant good
Strapped on the cross. It is what language learns.
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