He rows through silence, calm and wide,
With forests leaning either side,
A golden coat, the sky turned gray—
The world forgot, he drifts away.
The ripples hum a hollow tune,
A lullaby beneath the moon,
And every splash against the wood
Becomes a thought misunderstood.
No compass, map, or written plan,
Just heart and hand, the oar, the man.
He isn’t lost—he seeks the sound
Of voices only lakes h...
