By Ho Nansorhon, Korea (1563-1589).
The candlelight shines low on the dark window,
Fireflies flit across the housetops.
As the night grows colder,
I hear autumn leaves rustle to the ground.
There’s been no news for some time from your place of exile.
Because of you,
My mind is never free of worry.
Thinking of a distant temple,
I see a deserted hillside
Filled with the radiance of the moon.