Tonight, from all sides, many a cloud becoming chilly
by the grudge of fusillade from a cannon.
They wait at the foothill. Some of them sporting
watch on their wrist. The hands of hour and minute slowed down.
Under the sky lit by the moon, these strange watchmen
Will chitchat for a while; --
Their heart will flutter as if they are waiting anxiously for something special,
They absorb all the light emanated from the night sky?s stars.
Leaves of the olive trees gather droplets of dews.
Roaring sound of crested waves beating the shore is audible.
Like a white bed linen -- blank and no traces of life -- the wind roars.