if I could shelter all the impoverished poets and scholars under heaven

In the eighth month of autumn high angry winds howl 

Blowing three layers of thatch off my humble house 

The thatch fly over the river, scattering shards 

Some pieces soar so high they hang on treetops 

Some plummet down to earth covering ditches and pools 

A gang of hoodlums from the southern village appear 

They bully me ruthlessly, but I’m too old and weak to fight 

They dare to rob me in front of my face 

Then grab the spoils and run into the bamboo wilds 

Mouth parched, lips burning, I shout after them in vain 

I feel defeated, slump against my cane, and heave a deep sigh 

The winds finally calm down, the clouds turn dark as ink 

The autumn sky is hovering ominously, slowly turning black 

My old worn cotton quilt feels as cold as iron 

My dear children sleep poorly, thrashing and ripping the covers 

Bed after bed is soaked, the roof is dripping, no room is dry 

The rain batters us endlessly, falling as heavy as hemp 

I am lost in chaos and misery and can barely sleep a wink 

Such a damn long night—I am soaked and exhausted, I cry out, “Why?” 

If I could build a grand palace with a thousand, ten-thousand rooms 

    A safe-house standing on a hill so strong that violent storms can’t destroy 

    If I could shelter all the impoverished poets and scholars under heaven 

    Offer them a gathering place of peace and joy— 

If I could hold this spectacular vision in my eyes 

Then I would gladly freeze to death in my lonely broken home 

 

[Tu Fu {a.k.a. Du Fu} {712-770} 'Song of My House Being Battered by the Autumn Winds'; translated from the Chinese by Marilyn Chin. Originally published in Poem-a-Day]