The army drums cut off human travel,
A lone goose sounds on the borderland in autumn.
Tonight we start the season of White Dew,
The moon is just as bright as in my homeland.
My brothers are spread all throughout the land,
No home to ask if they are living or dead.
The letters we send always go astray,
And still the fighting does not cease …
Maybe one day I’ll write something like this, when Facebook and Gmail and cell phones are dead and gone and only the moon knows what my people are doing.