Toward the edge of the sky slants a pale crescent moon
Dusk haze mists the mountain village
Where while black-tile roofs are sprawling, cooking smoke is thin
The wooden door left ajar faces the setting sun
From a quiet path come footsteps
A face behind a low wall bobs over
But the sound is not from the long-expected returnee
Yet another home-leaver to go and work in Beijing
Footsteps are fading
Like time stream, the water under the greenish stone bridge keeps running
