Classic Poem

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.