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There has to be a way across
these mountains.
Somewhere there's a pass we haven't found.
The setting sun casts rows of jagged shadows
Swallowing what little hope remains.
Cold descends, the iron will of darkness,
When we can nothing do except survive.
Love like burning embers keeps us breathing
As bitterness engulfs the icy stars.
Ah, my love! There will be, will be morning!
The sun will rise up like an answered prayer.
We will find our way across these mountains
To build our lives on rich, well-watered plains.
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon
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