Lyrics

In the deep autumn of August, the fierce wind howls, tearing away several layers of thatch from the roof of my house. The thatch flies in disarray, crossing the Wash Flower Creek and scattering along the riverbank on the opposite side. Some of the taller pieces of thatch entangle in the treetops, while the lower ones float down to the ponds and marshes.
A group of children from the southern village, taking advantage of my old age and feebleness, heartlessly act like "thieves" right in front of me, brazenly snatching things and running into the bamboo forest with the thatch in their arms. My dry lips can't even muster a protest, and I return home leaning on my cane, sighing alone.
After a while, the wind subsides, and the sky is as black as ink with dark clouds looming overhead. The deep autumn sky becomes gloomy and gradually darkens. The bedding, covered for many years, is cold and hard like iron. The children sleep in uncomfortable positions, tearing the quilts. When it rains, the roof leaks, and there's not a dry spot in the house. The rainwater from the roof leaks down like hemp threads. Since the An Shi Rebellion, I've had little sleep, and the long nights are endless. With a leaking roof and a wet bed, how can I endure until dawn?
How can we obtain millions of spacious and grand houses to shelter the impoverished scholars of the world, bringing smiles to their faces, with houses that remain unmoved in the wind and rain, as stable as mountains! Alas! When will such towering houses appear before my eyes? Even if my thatched hut is blown away by the autumn wind and I freeze to death, I will do so willingly!