Our tent pegs are bent;
          you hammer them home
          amongst all these rocks.

          The ropes are frayed; the walls are thin. 
          So worn out with the effort,
          how will we hold it together?

          The scenery should be stunning,
          but we are facing the wrong direction.
          The moon has hidden her face.

          The fire burns bright, but not between us. 
          My back is cold; your eyes are coals – 
          a glimmer of hope as the shadows cling?

          Later, whispering your name, 
          just blowing on cold embers
          after the spark has died.

          Ashes in my mouth and smoke in my eyes.
          I have to blame something 
          for these bitter tears.