"A mountain need not be high; with an immortal, it wins renown. Water need not be deep; with a dragon, it gains spirit. This is a humble abode, yet my virtue lends it fragrance.
Moss climbs the steps in green; the grass casts its verdant hue through the curtains. In laughter and conversation there are Grand Confucians; among those who come and go, no Commoners. I may play an unadorned zither and read golden scriptures. No strings or pipes disturb my ears; no official documents weary my body. Zhuge's cottage in Nanyang, Ziyun's pavilion in Western Shu. Confucius said: 'What is humble about it?'"
As Lin Ke wrote, Xi He recited the entire Ode to the Humble Abode, and he, too, stood rooted in shock.
Lin Ke put down his brush, thoroughly satisfied. His calligraphy this time was quite good, too.
Ode to the Humble Abode was composed when Liu Yuxi was demoted. Seeing his fall from grace, the County Magistrate of the place to which he had been banished deliberately made life difficult for him, forcing him to move three times. Each home was smaller than the last, until he was left with only a tiny room.
Thus, in indignation, Liu Yuxi took up his brush and wrote Ode to the Humble Abode, then asked someone to carve it onto a stone tablet and erect it before his door.
Although Xi He's experiences differed from Liu Yuxi's, the circumstances he faced were similar.
Under heaven, there must have been countless people living in humble abodes. Some might have felt defeated, some lost, and some resolute.
But there ought to be voices offering them support.
Lin Ke rose and looked at the literary qi accumulating in the sky, feeling a little regretful.
If only his original body were here for