Fossilized fame on celluloid or oxide
Provides a kind of immortality.
Though dead, we watch them still
Made lovingly or loathsomely alive;
A menacing face we learned to hate,
The smile that warms the heart,
A voice familiar as our own,
Music à la carte.
Push-buttons and micro-chips
Give silent lips
And long-lost faces
We manage resurrection
Screen and loudspeaker
Make miracles seem cheaper.
But such patterned sound and light
Mere ephemeral delight.
A dwindling fame, destined for the archives,
Goes out of mind when hidden out of sight.
Real miracles cost more than price of fame.
True resurrection bears the wounds
That mutely point to shame,
But still proclaims
Brighter than a silver screen,
Louder than loudspeakers.
We call it Easter