I have known for years all of your faces;

Artisan, poet, playwright, lover.

The time worn grizzle to the soft touched graces;

Yet, when god gives you one face you make yourself another

As if you are not content with being placed on a hook,

A different head for each different platter –

Your face, my thane, is as a book

Where men may read strange matters.

Maybe it is because a false face must hide what a false heart doth know,

That what we are, ourselves, are many faces

And that as we age and love and grow

We mean different things, to different people in different times and places.