Stars are scattered all over the sky,
and they are pretty this way.
My hope is not scattered,
because it is not pretty this way.
Neither is it shattered,
because I have control over it.
Someday will be a bright day,
and I will turn lovely again.
What is it that I cannot do?
I can, I will, and I have faith.
Bring me along,
faith bring me along.
Fresh air is abundant,
and I will fetch a gallon.
My lungs will open,
and collect all there is available.
I will be breezy and blithe,
and good and gay.
No more pieces are seen,
but one single quilt you feel.
Stars are collected by the sky,
and I collect my hope.
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