Grip the Helm

[Интро]
(Whispering against the roar of the storm)
The world of men... rigid rules, paths laid out by others.
Some have the means; others have the ideas.
And here I stand, on a deck cobbled together from wreckage,
Clutching the helm as if it were the last thing tethering me to this world.

[Куплет 1]
This is the world of men—understand this: others have the means but lack the vision.
You lack the means, yet you burn from within—and that is more terrifying than any storm.
Ambition seeps from every crevice, like cracks in the hull.
The gale tries to smother the flame—but I do not go out; I keep on burning.
The stern is tossed from side to side—it feels as though the ground has vanished from beneath my feet.
Sails are tearing—the fabric snapping like nerves stretched to the breaking point.
I am on the edge: thoughts scattering like birds taking flight from the masts.
Gloomy clouds all around—nothing but darkness.
Flashes of lightning—strike after strike, blinding my eyes.
I remain silent. I simply turn the helm, trying to gather my scattered thoughts.
My heart is pounding—thump-thump—like an SOS signal in the silence.
A rigging line snaps—one more moment, and everything could collapse.

[Припев]
I grip the helm tighter—until my knuckles turn white.
I stare straight ahead, even when there is nothing around but downpour and ash.
Forward—let this storm become our fuel.
My idea is stronger than all of you!
Stronger! Stronger! Stronger! Through the storm, through the wreckage, through "impossible" and "too late." My idea is the anchor keeping me from falling.
Stronger!

[Куплет 2]
You say the storm is too fierce—I hear it in every gust of wind.
But letting go of the helm means admitting we’re already broken. Dark clouds have gathered for a reason—they are testing us:
How much strength do you have left? How much faith still lives within you?
If the sails tear, it’s time to stitch new ones from what remains.
From old plans, blueprints, and words that were never meant to come true.
It’s not about buying something ready-made—it’s about piecing it all together from the fragments.
This is the story of an engineer holding the course when the compass falls silent.
The heart beats: *thump-thump-thump*—this rhythm must not be broken.
Even if the cable snaps, I hold on. I hold on.

[Бридж]
Silence... for a moment.
The wind dies down—as if checking to see if anyone is still alive.
And in that silence, I hear:
Not "you won't make it," but "you are already making it."
Every turn of the helm is a victory over the urge to give up.
Every crack is not the end, but a line along which you grow stronger.
A deep breath. Another turn.

[Припев]
I grip the helm tighter—let the metal bend.
I look ahead, even if the horizon is drowning in darkness. Let us take flight—let this storm remember the trail we leave behind.
My idea is stronger than all of you!
Stronger! Stronger! Stronger! Through the storm, through the wreckage, through "impossible" and "too late."
My idea is the spark that fuels my fire.
Stronger!

[Аутро]
We have taken flight...
Now let the wind be at our backs.
We have passed through the black clouds.
We held our course.
We have taken flight.