In the early dawn of this autumn morning,
the mist congregates on the leaves of the large beech tree,
and drips, leaf by leaf, to the ground.

In the silence of the orchard,
the apples hang dark red on the branch,
waiting in the mist, moistened by the mist.

In the wet grass the men practice their martial arts:
their sticks clash rhythmically,
their deep shouts penetrate the mist.

In the silence of the rising sun,
the sunlight mixes in with the mist in the trees,
bringing changes, bringing tears.

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