Everyone else still lies abead,
And I just want to rest my head,
But I must get up at seven.
There's to get ready,
And many things to be done.
T'is wintertime,
And I get up before the sun.
I wait for him
To rise each day.
He's up now,
At seven thirty-two.
Wish I could sleep in that late,
But I have work to do.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem