I had a scar upon my head,
Was right between my eyes.
A slender thing, like steel thread,
Was perfect in its size.
I’d bumped a radiator
When I was only three,
And many a year that scar stayed there,
Which I was glad to see.
I hadn’t cried, but kept real still,
As blood ran down my face;
Was just surprised, as I am still,
That hard pipe stayed in place.
A few weeks later came the scar,
And it alone was mine;
I didn’t need a guiding star,
I carried my own sign.
One morn, when I was twenty-five,
And looking into glass,
I saw that scar was not alive,
But now was —naught, alas!
Yet that “Alas” was not too great
(I’ve bid it glad “So long!”)
For I’m content to lead my fate
Down paths of happy song!