G-ray clouds don't gather,
R-ays of the sun ascend;
A-fter the cold Friday night,
C-hill and shadows
E-nd.
P-ouring raindrops Saturday
A-re nowhere in sight;
T-he beautiful beacon
I-s setting things aright.
A-llow the seventh January to rise you up from slumber;
M-orning glory of your birth is truly beyond compare.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem