In youth he loved the script, in age his passion grew more deep,
Hundreds of scrolls in brocade bags, with ivory tags they keep.
The Jiangzuo region's ink wonders the world failed to acclaim,
The Tang masters' rough works are barely worthy of the name.
Those masters' cursive style held nothing to be praised with pride,
Mid-Tang saw Zhang Dian's name begin to spread far and wide.
When Zhang Dian's brush touched the page, a divine force was felt,
Its marvel seemed not formed by dots or strokes as they melt.
Later, a monk named Cangzhen in this art did arise,
His conception, free and graceful, reached a yet finer prize.
In their own time, these two men held the most renowned fame,
Scholars to this day still bow and honor their name.
Our dynasty's Su brothers are known for their command,
Runyang in Runan also has a skilled hand.
Recently, those masters have all passed away in death,
The rest are vulgar and low, worthy of scorn and wrath.
Once, in a burst of joy, I traveled to the capital town,
Liezi showed me a new plain screen of great renown.
Then I knew Wu Ze had grasped this very Dao of art,
The Changsha Daoist seems reborn, playing his part.
Returning to my poor lane, I shut my humble door,
You kindly visited, and formalities were no more.
You gifted me these lines—surely not without intent,
Their force like nine rivers pouring into the sea's extent.
Within them, dragons and serpents sink, rise, and descend,
Awed and captivated, I'm startled without end.
What can I offer in return for such words so fine?
To give gold or jade would feel too light and unworthy of mine.
With earnest bows, my joy is more than I can bear,
You've cleared the mist from my old eyes, making them aware.