All those portraits in the books
In your hazy childhood
From the brushes of painters
Who you did not know.

And, among them a face
Which made you smile
That one had something
That seemed more human than the others.

You always went back to the book
Just to see that face again
You didn't know why
What drew you to it

The world is your book now
And it is full of many faces
From a maker you do not know.
There is still that face.