I love your poetry, Ziquan,
Its bitter taste, an endless chew.
In vain I strive to name its form,
A hundred similes fall short.
At first, like troops in hot pursuit,
Repeated pleas gain slow advance.
Banners flutter left and right,
Halberds and swords, a blade-bright dance.
Just as they vie to seize the lead,
A sudden glimpse of chaos slain.
Then slowly drive to open plain,
Ten thousand armors merge as one.
Lieutenants stumble, rise again,
The center sits, a Sun Bin's pain.
Shouts and roars, the fight grows fierce,
As if the foe's last strength is spent.
Vanguard charges, clashes meet,
Rear horses bolt, their reins are rent.
Soon gongs resound, the noise is stilled,
All clamor yields to one brave will.
The crowd surrenders, spears laid down,
Kowtowing, begging for a truce.
In panic, pleading for their lives,
They steal a glance, not daring breathe.
Dark clouds press down the empty sky,
At midnight, thunderclaps explode.
Sleepy ears start up to cover,
Shocked, one loses heart and soul.
The strong are shaken even so,
Much more a child, as I was then.
And when I savor it at length,
I wish to speak, yet hold my tongue.
Like laying out a hundred gems,
I taste them one by one, in turn.
Greedy for riches, spurning none,
Loving beauty, scraps forgot.
Thus it lingers in the mouth,
Though long, the throat stays moist and smooth.
When will you come on your lone steed,
That awe and love may both be stirred?
Just as before our friendship sealed,
Like missing Xie and Lin's accord.
Gazing afar, I write this verse,
Topsy-turvy, like ash conjoined.