A face looks over you. It is loving and kind. It is the face you dream of when your tummy is full and you tire of playing. She is mother.
A face looks up at you, bouncing you up in her hands and you laugh with her. It is the face you dream of when night falls and all is good in the world.
A face looks at you intently, giving you gifts like mirrors and blocks. It is the face you look for when the toys lose their glamor.
A face unknown appears, then another and another still. They are stony, and strange. They are pale, like the snow outside you love to play in.
A face screams as you are taken up into their hurting hands, they rend you and tear you apart. Your screams go unheard by mother, though father has heard you.
A new face is before you, it is bright and strong with eyes of metal grey. You are unafraid, but you are confused and angry.
Your face is like a mask, trapped in the insanity of death, divine and elusive, you ascend to the home of the father, and soon mother too will join you.
Your face is remembered in dances and dreams. God of the fertile vine and possessor of the body in insane revelry.