The Fountain of Faces

On and on ten thousand heroes sing “I have no face but yours”  

While mice and men draw swords of sticks to score the victory mask of war

Shall we toast to deity, taste divinity, and deify ourselves

Or seek God’s face in mirth and mire, wielding a fountain pen baptized–

In the Brook of Kells?

And there was evening, Narcissus came, bearing divine beauty

Drooling over flesh and blood, he swore an oath of humble fealty

To His mirror, his master, his precious love and marbled stature

“Who’s there?” Echoed God, who knew the heart of man.

“The hero,” cried he, idol of nature.

And there was evening, Achilles came, to trample Troy and King

His spear eclipsed fell trojan sun, the Achaean bore chariot wings

A man of renown, an unrelenting hound, centaur-ion noble raised

Vengeance turned the hero’s face, Apollo strummed and now he lays–

Wholly submerged in Styx.

And there was morning, on the third day, when Living Waters rose

A temple flooding and bursting as the crystal fountain overflows

The Hero of Men, Lord of wellspring kin, thrust open reservoirs of new life 

Streams of faces trickle ’long Heaven’s beard,

Ten thousand stories proclaiming, “Drink, draw near!”