Classic Poem

In the high autumn skies of September
the wind cried out in rage,
Tearing off in whirls from my rooftop
three plies of thatch.
The thatch flew across the river,
was strewn on the floodplain,
The high stalks tangled in tips
of tall forest trees,
The low ones swirled in gusts across ground
and sank into mud puddles
The children from the village to the south
made a fool of me, impotent with age,
Without compunction plundered what was mine
before my very eyes,
Brazenly took armfuls of thatch,
ran off into the bamboo,
And I screamed lips dry and throat raw,
but no use.
Then I made my way home, leaning on staff,
sighing to myself.
A moment later the wind calmed down,
clouds turned dark as ink,
The autumn sky rolling and overcast,
blacker towards sunset,
And our cotton quilts were years old
and cold as iron,
My little boy slept poorly,
kicked rips in them.
Above the bed the roof leaked,
no place was dry,
And the raindrops ran down like strings,
without a break.
I have lived through upheavals and ruin
and have seldom slept very well,
But have no idea how I shall pass
this night of soaking
Oh, to own a mighty mansion
of a hundred thousand rooms,
A great roof for the poorest gentlemen
of all this world,
a place to make them smile
A building unshaken by wind or rain,
as solid as a mountain,
Oh, when shall I see before my eyes
a towering roof such as this?
Then I'd accept the ruin of my own little hut
and death by freezing.