A luminary of the southern land, a man of peerless grace,
A hero of his age, with an elegant and noble face.
Long hailed in celestial praise, his fame from heaven came,
Early he dreamt of glory beneath the moon's bright flame.
His carriage bore three thousand scrolls, a scholarly array,
Like the roc, he soared ninety thousand miles away.
He left the scholar's pool behind, where once he learned and played,
To the Isle of Immortals, his rightful ascent made.
He followed steps in Yu's grand court, a path both deep and wide,
With fragrant herbs in Han's great hall, by the emperor's side.
Gradually the crimson pole draws near, a sign of royal grace,
He leads the constellations, shining brightest in their place.
Destined to attend the throne, in threefold audience grand,
To serve among the six high lords, and help to rule the land.
The mirror's golden back is heavy, a symbol of his weight,
The purple lotus pouch is light, yet carries noble state.
Before the royal edict came, his honor yet unseen,
How could he know the slanderous box would overflow, so mean?
He left the court, the clouded road stretched far and out of sight,
Returning home to serve in robes of colorful delight.
He borrowed land for bamboo groves, like Wang Huizhi of old,
And played the flute in lofty towers, as Zi Jin's tales are told.
With loyal heart, what fault could bear? What blame could he incur?
No need to startle at the white-eyed scorn, a steadfast soul will stir.
He knows himself enriched by grace, the emperor's favor deep,
And personally has faced the test where arts and talents leap.
Beauty and ugliness are judged beneath the critic's glass,
The high and low in writing seen, as scholars come to pass.
His dreams hold no strange dragon fears, no visions of the deep,
His words lack phoenix eloquence, no soaring flights to keep.
His rhapsody can glimpse the small, a modest, humble art,
His classics ramble, merely heard, not piercing to the heart.
By error stained in Spring Office's roll, a blemish on his name,
He feels ashamed before the monthly critics' judgment flame.
Like sparrows darting through the elms, his flight is low and small,
Like orioles just leaving the vale, he answers fortune's call.
He yearns to join the gifted youths, the coins of verdant hue,
And ranks among the jade-shoot men, a scholarly crew.
Parted so long, the autumn crane laments with plaintive cry,
Returning, he must ask the gulls their ocean pact nearby.
Not yet the west of River's aide, a minor post to hold,
He wanders by the river's edge, a story to be told.
At night he fishes by the moon, where shoals and waters gleam,
At dawn he plows beneath the clouds, on ridges like a dream.
As year grows late, he first comes back, a journey's end in sight,
The sky is cold, the rain not cleared, in dim and fading light.
Long delayed from following staff and shoe, the master's way,
He'll rest again within his hut, among the branches gray.
Hereafter, meeting brings deep shame, a blush he cannot hide,
He softly chants to write his heart, with feelings deep inside.
He waits to hear the summons from the palace hall once more,
To grace the Phoenix Tower and lift his family's lore.