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As I stand in the foliage
    which soaked, drips itself dry
  in the steep, blue night, after the storm,
    The voice of a lonely toad
    as pure as the bell of the chapel
      at a monastery.
  As the bell reverberates
      in the streets
      the dripping branch of an oak shows
    that one is on Earth.
  In the fresh lilac sky
    the rain vanishes
      leaving only
        a newborn star.


In the foliage
    this humble cottage
  my heart leaves the night and goes quickly
    to the light.