“The moon shines down on dewy fields. In my hometown, Beyond this mountain and the next, An old man used to play a driftwood flute. The sun, long since sunk beneath the sea, Shines in the Mother’s mirror through the night. My grandparents are dewdrops on the grass and notes on the wind. Whisper, little sound, through the field, Murmuring of all that we cherish, Sighing for all that we mourn. My parents are dewdrops on the grass and notes on the wind. Quiver, little sound, through the field, Weeping for what is past, Laughing for tomorrow’s joy. You and I are dewdrops on the grass and
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