A-s the sun soon will rise,
I-n early twentieth of March;
R-ays from the beacon shine,
A-ll the raindrops are parched.
G-ray clouds turn into white,
U-nderneath the blue sky;
C-old chill Monday morn
I-s now passing you by.
L-et the mirth make you smile,
A-fter the tears in your eyes;
T-hink not of the dark dusk,
A-s the sun soon will
R-ise.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem