After the Rebellion of 755, all was silent wasteland,
gardens and cottages turned to grass and thorns.
My village had over a hundred households,
but the chaotic world scattered them east and west.
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A tragic tale, no wonder he is unhappy. Keep writing, Du Fu, things can get better!
I don't think Du Fu will be writing any more poems, since he died in the year 770.
Sad tale of war and devastation. Very well done. I especially like the last part: I will forever feel pain for my long-sick mother. I abandoned her in this valley five years ago. She gave birth to me, yet I could not help her. We cry sour sobs till our lives end. In my life I have no family to say farewell to, so how can I be called a human being?