It’s a scar on your forehead, son,
I have no excuse,
The house was the knife,
The ram nowhere to be found.

It’s a play I missed, son,
I made it up to you with time I had,
Perhaps am I still short though.
It’s a watch my son, you have
All the time which was missing.

It’s a glass, my son, wrapped in a cloth,
Which you’ll perhaps break with your left foot.
It’s a ring I lost, then your mother lost hers,
And we decided to replace none.

It’s somebody else,
Fragile as a flame, stepping in.
It’s your life both and
Every mistake yours.
It’s us, smiling as we fade.

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