In Luoyang, a youth named Li Mo was famed,
His skill on the transverse flute was widely acclaimed.
In the Imperial Music Bureau, he ranked first,
Outshining all others, he was the best.
Willows by Tianjin Bridge cast a green shade,
Where to lodge under hazy moon, in mist arrayed?
Undaunted by the night watch's strict decree,
He stole to play the newly banned melody.
Each note and phrase he memorized with care,
And secretly notated them on the rail there.
Bright and keen, he practiced upon return,
Clearly blowing it toward the moon, his passion burn.
The five notes clamored, intertwined they rose,
Calling gong, breathing zhi, a wondrous compose.
Who would envy Cao Gang's lute so fine?
Nor mention Yang Tao's reed pipe's design.
Linked sounds unbroken like a chain they flow,
Heavy tones suddenly turn like mountains in a row.
Fresh, unlike the "Falling Plum" tune's art,
Fluttering like "Rainbow Skirt" just starts.
Broken beats and rich tones clash and blend,
Like the Winnowing Star's wind, pipes' range to extend.
A string of pearls, a peck strung in a line,
Scattered on gold plate, urging beats to align.
Clanging sounds mostly heroic and grand,
Distinctly above others, high pitches command.
Fenglong startled, dragons and serpents arise,
Rain chasing clouds, their first howls pierce the skies.
At each transition, pauses and stresses appear,
A sudden burst of sound seems to shatter the ear.
Exquisite, only ivory clappers can keep pace,
Clear and crisp, no other music can embrace.
The palace walls echoed, the sound grew more bright,
In still night, under bright moon, heard far and wide.
Who idly recalls the Governor of Ma Nan?
Know that I surpass General Huan.
The Bright Emperor first heard it from his tower,
After listening, pondered deep, his thoughts turned sour.
He ordered inquiries throughout streets and lanes,
Swiftly sent royal men to arrest and detain.
Li Mo confessed with utmost sincerity,
The Emperor's mercy thus pardoned his penalty.
Later,落魄 like a wandering sprite,
In a small boat, playing moon on rivers bright.
From an embroidered pouch, a gold-threaded pipe he drew,
Raising brows, licking lips, self-pity he knew.
A tune that startled gods and moved ghosts he played,
Fingering especially high, breath perfectly laid.
Waves, though windless, lay calm and serene,
A thousand li of water spread with misty sheen.
Aquatic spirits secretly danced with delight,
An old dragon appeared, showing care in its sight.
Then with an iron flute, they played face to face,
Li Mo, unaware, felt no fear nor disgrace.
Thus we know, when art surpasses the rare,
Not only men, but ghosts too are aware.