I\'ve lost sight of who I am,
Or who I ought to be,
I cower inside a tiny boat
Lost upon a storm-tossed sea...
Occasionally a seabird
will come crying, wheeling by,
Giving me hope for fresh new lands -
Only then to fall and die.
If I could graft a little sail,
Of fabric, nails and splintered wood,
I could raise a mast on high
To catch the salty wind, make good
My escape from this wretched storm,
Which seems to never end;
Surely lands must rise up soon
As finally, my sins amend.
But in catching winds that blow the course,
I\'m mastering my fate,
My bravery will be rewarded
And I\'ll find the storm will soon abate.