In the capital, the road of fame and gain,
Carriages and horses dash in a frantic train.
Those who seek riches and honor there,
Often lose to the witch doctors' care.
A dozen or more, in succession they came,
Their bodies perished, their names brought to shame.
Only Xu Xi stands out, a rare sight,
What wondrous talents he holds, shining bright.
He first came from Xiacai, a humble place,
Where his surroundings were noisy and base.
For thirty years in the West Market he stayed,
Unnoticed, his skills in obscurity laid.
One day, wielding his supreme art,
He stepped onto the marble steps, a sudden start.
Three needles cured the emperor's ill,
Swift as a miracle, with instant skill.
Rewarded with a post in the Six Offices high,
His name enrolled where palace gates lie.
Honored with third-rank robes, a grand display,
Purple sash and golden tortoise, proud and gay.
Then, having thanked the throne, he turned west,
And performed the ritual with earnest zest.
The emperor, amazed, asked the reason clear,
He recounted his tale, distinct and sincere.
'I learned Bian Que's art, a tradition true,
And now, meeting my lord, I can use it for you.
This special act of thanks I extend,
My heart holds no selfish aim, no end.'
The lord, touched by his intent, sighed with praise,
And marveled at his deed in admiring gaze.
He granted funds from the treasury's store,
To build a shrine west of the capital's door.
Bestowed the title 'Numinous Response' fair,
A golden plaque shone on beams carved with care.
From then on, beneath the imperial wheel,
Pilgrims flocked to pray, with fervent zeal.
Passing Qingcheng Lane, my heart felt sore,
Seeing this, I grieved even more.
The Qin doctors' skills, though subtle and deep,
Could heal the five viscera and limbs they keep.
If their art finds the right heir to own,
A thousand ages will honor it, never overthrown.
The sage of Lu's way, vast and grand,
Governs the empire and guides the people's hand.
But if it falls to those unfit and wrong,
In a single day, conflict will grow strong.
Petty clerks followed Xun Kuang's creed,
Stealing arguments for their selfish need.
As chancellor, he urged books to burn,
Deceiving fools, making them unlearn.
Later Confucians, in heart, are all Li Si,
Betraying the past with treachery.
Once, in commoner days, they'd hold fast
To ancient kings' rules, from first to last.
Mornings they talked of the Twelve Classics' lore,
Evenings recited three hundred poems or more.
Relying on study of antiquity's might,
They advanced in glory, no other path in sight.
But when in the court's high hall they stand,
With long swords and tall caps, majestic and grand,
They think heaven bestowed this noble state,
Unaware of Confucius, the master great.
Confucius' heir lost his inherited fief,
Ten years passed in seasonal grief.
Another surname took the county's lead,
Elders in the village were shocked indeed.
Memorials ignored, no reply came,
The ninefold palace faced deceit and shame.
Remonstrators failed to point out the flaw,
Censors stayed silent, breaking the law.
All become a joke to Xu Xi's name,
Who, finding his way, forgot his master's fame.