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
calls
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.