Ye Gong, friend of dragons, a talent under heaven,
In those years, the qilin descended from the sky.
A Confucian child was sent by the Great One's grace,
Downstream he roamed the gates, viewing jade towers high.
His lofty standard prized the divine steeds alone,
Would he let lingering regret be left in weeds unknown?
The imperial stables feed thousands of steeds on grain,
Their vibrant energy surges, galloping down Heaven's Lane.
Steady in golden bridles, they stand by the palace gate,
Looking down on all Ji Bei as nags of lesser state.
The black and yellow not come, eight dragons far away,
Yet portraits remain buried in dust's disarray.
Short screens and high barriers long fallen to decay,
Their towering image seeks companions in dismay.
Gathering these supreme hooves all in one place,
Unrolling the silk, one feels the desert wind's embrace.
How grand, ten horses each with a distinct face,
Divine creatures transform, needing wind and thunder's pace.
Soaring and dashing, each with its own grace,
Would they care for short necks pacing an empty space?
Who is the one holding reins, halting the carriage's race?
No longer does he shed tears or mourn with sorrow's trace.
Grooming in Yan, feeding in Yue, not worth a mention,
They'll chase the candle-bearing sun to the western declension.
Among them, one steed stands unmoved, a steadfast bastion,
Tail drooping green silk, hooves like awls in suspension.
Who knows his ambition for ten thousand li is not done?
We only see his solitude, like cold ashes in the sun.
Long Mian's old brush no more can be obtained,
Transformed into a hundred million, black and yellow unrestrained.
Zheng Sheng, emerging late, excels in portrayal's art,
His great fame aims to match Cao Ba and Han Gan's part.
His mortal body flew to the ninth heaven, to depart,
In pure capital's towers, golden and towering apart.
Jade flowers shine at night, beyond any price to chart,
One imagines fire pearls and coral heaps, a work of heart.
Even now, this painting is hard to acquire, a rarity,
Would he play with a bald brush, stained with leftover coal's parity?
A thousand gold for bones shows intent not shallow,
Facing this, one sighs with passion, wounded and hollow.