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.