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17 Thatched House Destroyed by an Autumn Storm after Tu Fu In September, on a high-sky autumn day, the gale’s howl blows the heavy thatch from the house. Straws fly across the bank, scatter in the fields; some hang in the upper branches, some swirl and sink in the puddle-ponds. Knowing I am old and frail, the children from the southern village gang together openly, gathering the reeds in their arms, and disappear into the bamboo forest. I shout and scream, but they don’t return. I walk home, leaning on my walking stick, talking to myself. The wind drops. The ink-clouds turn the autumn sky into a dark desert. The threadbare quilt is cold as iron. My son’s not sleeping well; he kicks and tears the quilt. The bed’s wet, the house leaks, there’s nowhere dry. The rain’s tight as linen, won’t stop. It’s been hard to sleep since the war began, these long wet nights, and no sign of dawn. I wonder how many houses we’d need to build 18 to shelter the world’s poor. A mountain weathers every storm. Will such houses ever see the light of day? If I could see them, I think I’d die happy, here in the cold, under this thatch. ...

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