Sometimes they are pleasant
With both sun and the cresant
Their colour is comfortable to the eyes
For us they are given as a prize
Sometimes it rain in a ganourous way
Not making anyone it's pray
They cahnge their color to black
As if the comfortibility will not come back
Now they are angry
They will collide like spanish bull's
Making a thunder noise
And making everyone it's pray.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem