The large rooster struts forth with pride,
The small one waits, alert and tense.
Lofty, brimming with fierce might,
Groomed, its vivid colors dense.
Its lofty gait seems proud and grand,
Its sidelong glance watches for threat.
Their piercing gazes fiercely meet,
Hearts like sword and halberd set.
They take their combs as helmets worn,
And use their spurs as spearheads keen.
The season brings a clear, cold chill,
The ground is high and brisk and clean.
Their hackles rise, a shivering dread,
Their swollen wattles bulge in strife.
Now chests are lowered suddenly,
Then upright stance returns to life.
The thud of battle clamors loud,
Bright feathers fall in whirling white.
A pause, the outcome still in doubt,
A slight setback doubles their might.
Jealous hearts are set on foes,
A murderous nature seeks to slay.
Torn flesh loses its crowing voice,
Pecking crimson, hunger's way.
They clash in startled, urgent leaps,
They spin with cunning, crafty guile.
Like Li Yang's ruthless, heavy blows,
Or Zhu Hai's hammer, trapped awhile.
My heart feels pity, kindness' call,
Your shattered head, what was your crime?
The sole victor's fate is thus,
Onlookers sweat, alarmed, in time.
The proud one's face lights up with joy,
The fearful eyes on bribes are set.
Crowds watch till clouds fill up the road,
Their shouts like waves that ocean fret.
Their gripping claws sink deep, held fast,
Their glaring eyes show no respite.
Each splash revives them to the fight,
Each clash renews their edge and might.
Heads droop, like crushed cinnabar red,
Wings droop, like brocade trailing low.
Continuous, they show strength to spare,
Their clear cries like triumphant crow.
Choosing the best, moved by plucked feather,
Grateful for grace, ashamed like start.
A hero's heart would rather die in fight,
Noble flesh disdains the butcher's art.
Behold this "Cockfight" poem's lay,
Its brief verse holds a worth to glean.