"Whoosh!!!"
Gusts of wind roared between heaven and earth, and the sky darkened, its light growing dim.
Before anyone could react, inexplicable terror gripped them.
The wind was too strong!
Amid those fierce gusts, everyone seemed to behold a scene.
An old man lived beside a pond. In the depths of autumn, in the eighth month, raging winds howled and stripped several layers of thatch from his roof.
The thatch flew wildly across Huanhua Creek, scattering along the opposite bank. The pieces that flew high tangled in the towering treetops; those that flew low drifted down into ponds and hollows.
Over there, a group of ignorant village children bullied the old man for his age and weakness. They actually had the heart to play "thieves" right before his eyes, brazenly carrying his thatch away into the bamboo grove.
His lips grew dry, yet his shouts could not stop them. When he returned, he leaned on his walking stick and could only sigh alone.
After a while, the wind stopped. Clouds black as ink filled the sky, and the gloomy, misty late-autumn heavens gradually darkened.
The old man returned inside. His cloth quilt, used for years, was cold and hard as an iron plate. His child slept restlessly and had kicked the lining apart.
Whenever it rained, the roof leaked. Not a single spot inside stayed dry, and rainwater streamed ceaselessly down from the roof like strands of hemp.
Ever since those of servile status had sunk lower and lower, the old man had slept less and less. The night stretched endlessly, the roof leaked, and his bed was soaked. He could hardly endure until dawn.
And so the old man dreamed:
How could I obtain ten thousand spacious, lofty houses?
*Then I could shelter everyone under heaven, whether they belonged