It was a hard frost, that day,
The wintry sun, though powerless,
Kept an air of blessing,
Forming a majestic feeling of purity.
It looked brightly at us,
An infant in the grass of the sky.
It was shut out from hope,
The air was crisp and clear.
Now that the year grew old
The patience of own star
Was made into a story of poetry
Like the wintry one, the winters.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem