Alas, I met you late, when you were still in your prime.
Truly a wonder of the world, unconstrained and sublime.
Lofty, you feared to startle the crowd, so among drinkers you'd hide.
Once drinking, you'd not count the gallons, till rivers and mountains were dried.
You wrote hundreds of poems, brocade woven with jade, so fine.
Often crafting perilous lines, refining the coarse to divine.
Exploring the strange, transforming like mist, searching for monsters, dragons, and fish.
Most poems you penned yourself, in Yan and Yu's calligraphic style, as you wish.
Soon discarded, not treasured, how many remain today?
Yet scattered among men, they're cherished like pearls in display.
You loved to inscribe walls, where rainbows would curl and unroll.
Traces left everywhere, your moist ink never grows old.
At Qushan some years back, I too was banished, adrift.
Parted for four or five years, how swiftly our fortunes did shift.
Returning to the capital, my heart aged, my frame grew lean.
Startled by such decline, who'd guess now you're nowhere seen?
Your talent, ever lofty, aloof from the worldly race.
A steed in its youth, aiming for a thousand-mile space.
Once old and stalled in the stable, it still dreams of mountain hay.
Heaven's troops camp in the northwest, while rebels yet delay.
And now a strong man lies dead, mourned by all, wise or unwise.
Your soul returns to Wo's fields, where dew-drenched grass 'neath spring skies.