We beat on, hearts like fragile oars in hands,
Against the tide that pulls us through the years,
In water\'s grip, the past commands, demands,
A backward glance, the source of all our tears.
Each stroke a memory, each breath a sigh,
The boat’s a fragile dream that barely floats,
Our minds, the stormy seas where echoes lie,
In whispers, ancient voices rock the boats.
Yet still we row, relentless in the flow,
Each current stronger, dragging us behind,
To shores we left so long ago, we know,
The ghosts of who we were, we’ll always find.
So ceaselessly, our spirits’ oars will bend,
Against the past, our journey without end.