You are drifting, for you have given up on swimming.
There is nothing tied to you, although the red-string maidens are weaving.

You sang with your heart, but there was no one to hear your frequency.
And such is the fate of the loneliest whale of the sea.

And they will never understand the glory of your surrender,
For in their eyes, one is always destined for another.

The acceptance of your fate, they call it misery,
But to you, 'tis only pure, sweet liberty.