Firelight, candles fight, twice as bright,
dead of night as we develop a fold with our bow amidst waves of ocean cold
Onward we row like oarsmen weary old each night from trudging each day cold
Stroke, Stroke, Stroke.
Onward we row into forward foreign,
coming from places whose useful functions only behind us lie.
Each day brings each night, and each night a firelight,
lit but for even if a moment fills each fold of our heart and heart of our fold with all the usual unspokens,
yet more than any other, hope.
Catch the wind hope that lifts strokes each over the next ready
Onward toward escape winds faster than they can
Until harnessed and forged to shape and command.
As time enjoys us still to come, at best will always be
agents binding between us to fill our fold with firelight
From one another of the same.
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