Like an angry broom
The wind is sweeping
The clouds are deep dark
And full of rain
Like a widow weeping
Yet it is a beautiful thing
A moment of joy just
A fleeting thing
It's enough just to hear
A robin sing
Knowing that
Sooner or later
The skies will
Become clear
And our eyes
They will welcome the sun
As soon as it does appear
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem