If only my life were and oxcart that creaks down the road in the morning, very early, and returns by the same road to where it came from in the evening...

I wouldn't have to have hopes,
    just wheels...
My old age wouldn't have wrinkles
    or white hair...
When I was of no more use,
my wheels would be removed
And I'd end up in a ditch,
    broken and overturned...

Or I'd made into something different
And I wouldn't know what I'd been
    made into...
But I'm not an oxcart,
I'm different.
But exactly how I'm different...
    no one would ever tell me.