The moonlight before my bed, 
I wonder if it's frost upon the ground. 
I lift my head, gazing at the bright moon,  
I bow my head, thinking of home.
The autumn wind stirs the reeds and rushes, 
The crickets chirp at the beginning of night.
I think of diasporated people returning home,    
Riding magpies and perching crows. 
Most worries can make people restless, 
Missing loved ones can bring endless grief. 
I wish I could ride the wind and fly away, 
But I fear the bright moon would follow my way.