Thinking Of My Brothers On A Moonlit Night

Drums on the watch-tower have emptied the roads -At the frontier it's autumn; a wild-goose cries.

This is a night in which dew becomes frost;

The moon is bright like it used to be at home.

I have brothers, but they're scattered;

My home's broken up; are they dead or alive?

If letters are sent, they never arrive;

This war that separates us seems unending.