I want to be happy, but happiness is fickle,
Because we're only promised pursuit
Not joy on a platter:
The only thing that can be true.
"It is all within yourself," but my soul is dark,
When we're only promised freedom
Not the life we dearly want;
My age a double-digit sum.
Rejoice! Sing loudly! Rejoice!
(Where do I find strength?)
I'm never promised help, but given it nonetheless,
So my bones grow weak
But it's okay, I have support-
My wheelchair carries me to my deathbed-
Where the world is overcome,
And everything's alright someday,
And everything's okay somehow.