Till We Have Faces

And soon did I set out to procure the book, and now I have finished it.

It does feel like a few grand themes in my life are coming together- all of a sudden at times, and then so slow it makes me jumpy the other. I know it is a dangerous thing to say, especially regarding that which I hold cherished. And so with veiled words and a weak attempt at eloquence:

Pi, you have guessed it,
A mystery known and yet not.
But hush, don't be excited,
The main character is not him.

Simple Psyche with that meek beauty,
Or Orual (her name I turn over in my lips more than Psyche) the embittered,
Fox with his wise Greek sayings,
And the gods who did not answer till Orual got her answer in her complaint.

But no these are far from the main character,
Whom we (I) fail describing and have failed.
The story is now mine (and yours?),
With He who made Orual a Psyche.

Thus my resolve,
After which a realisation.
Till I have been cruel of heart (in the words of Orual still with veiled face),
Till I long for the King in the greater country beyond (simple Psyche)- Until then,

Will things shine with that beauty of things that ought to be.

Not Pi, not the mountains of Mongolia (oh how I dearly yearn for them),
Not a thousand splendid suns (setting or rising).
Not the affirmation of man (though that tempts so wickedly),
Not even the touching of another's life (a foolish desire).

I write with face veiled also, I (think I) know.
The word perhaps has not been dug out of me.
But close enough.
I have glimpsed His countenance, and how is this possible if I did not have a face?
But for grace.