Not that the troubles are over,
Neither the pains are gone forever,
They're there still, crawling
Like moths from marrow to marrow, nipping
At every bud of joy day by day,
Like a caterpillar eating away
The tendril of a new plant to decay.
Life is for the living, maybe not so grim,
So whether my cup is filled to the brim,
Nor my coffer stuffed with foreign currencies,
I live each day with ease.
Not that all my material needs are met,
Nor have I no care over which to fret,
Not that I feel not the pang of hunger any longer,
Nor have I no bother over which to ponder,
Only that I have chosen the joy of living
Over the anguish of perpetual striving.
When I think about the brevity of life,
I choose peace over strife.
I chose happiness over sadness,
Though there's not one without the other.