I have planned and dreamt of this trophy of gold,
The halo of silver, around in which it molds.
I have cradles this idea and nursed it to true plan,
I have fed it seeds of confidence, O this is so grand!
How lofty atop your kingdom's throne you rest,
Pray, dim these stars, for (alone) your grace shines best.
No cloud can cloak your clean face of white,
For however masked, somehow, somewhere, you glow so bright!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem