"Wen Qi writes both poetry and rhapsodies well. His historical poems are bold and inspired, and his landscapes and emotions are elegant and delicate too..." Xu Menglang said softly, raising his cup for a sip. "I wouldn't be surprised if his poem were judged the finest today... look, just as I said."
Copies of the poem soon circulated through the banquet hall. Even the two of them, out on the fringes, received a sheet, though almost last.
The man's soft, beautiful eyes were already somewhat unfocused. He stared blankly at the sheet, seemingly frozen for a moment.
Pei Ye leaned over to look. It was a historical poem in seven-character lines, titled "Passing Chen Lin's Tomb."
It read:
Once in the histories I read the writings you left behind; today, a drifting tumbleweed, I pass this grave.
If your poet's spirit lives, you surely know me; with towering talent and no master, I begin to pity you.
Stone qilin lie buried, hidden in spring grass; the Bronze Sparrow stands desolate against evening clouds.
Do not wonder that I grieve the more before the wind; with books and sword, I would learn to join the army.
"If your poet's spirit lives, you surely know me..." Xu Menglang murmured blankly, looking up at the carved beams overhead. Moonlight leaked through the gaps... suddenly, he smiled, set down the sheet, and lowered his head to drink another cup.
It was indeed a fine poem. Pei Ye quietly read it several times. The poet's spirit almost surged out from between the words to meet him.
This certainly was no appeal for patronage, nor could he see any flattery in it, much less the sort of reasoning Xin Dongxue had put into verse. This must have been the poem that poet wanted to write... which