E-arly seventh January,
S-aturday shares a fine weather;
P-ouring rain disappears,
I-t's a lovely morn
E-ver.
A-s you wake from slumber,
B-eautiful day begins to break;
R-ise of the world's beacon
I-s erasing the Friday's ache.
G-et up from the bed, leave the night's misery;
O-pen your eyes and watch the flying fish in the sea.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem