The face of man

Alone on the beach with my memories, at the orange death of the day,
I searched for meaning in the settling sun.
When from out of the sand a giant head rose, first tugging and tearing with the blows,
then settling surreal on the water’s run.The face of man image_3
Its salty locks cascaded down, falling and flowing and seeming to be, 
with the foam on the sea, all one.


The wizened visage tilted up, no threat darked that furrowed brow,
no malice marred the ancient eye.
Untold wisdom lined the face, across which the history of the human race
paraded swiftly by.
A million lifetimes arrowed o’er, fleeting on through faceless crowds,
like the clouds in the cirrus sky.

A choir of human voices swelled, above harps and violins and big bass drums,
till the music filled the air with sound.
Then deep as a cello came the roundest voice, as if from its belly it did rejoice
and the thrum of its words did astound.
“I am the living and the dead. I am of you and I am none you know.
I have been where you have been, and places you’ve not yet found.

You stand not alone. We are all one. By yourself you are only a small grain of sand.
We – are the collective face of man.
Where you came from, there was life before. Your works you must leave at the exit door
as fabric for the unborn clan.
The life-force is real, but not flesh, blood or bone.
It’s ours not to own but forms part of the plan.

A new candle is lit from the guttering old.
The same flame burns on through lifetimes untold.”

So uttered the sage, as the sun sank down.

neal allen     –    2016