E-arly thirtieth December,
U-nderneath the blue sky;
N-ight chill Thursday turns
I-nto Friday sun rising high.
C-oal clouds don't gather, the lane is bright orange;
E-vening shadows are gone, the cold raindrops change.
V-ile weather turns fine,
E-very line above is silver;
R-ay of hope is never lost,
A-s you trust in the Maker.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem