Who split open the chaotic shell?
From two energies, clear and turbid fell.
The clear gave birth to sages wise and true,
The turbid formed the foolish, coarse, and crude.
Heroes, though gone, their noble names remain,
The worthless die in vain, 'mid weeds and grain.
Worldly eyes see glory in a fleeting day,
Loyalty and filial piety forever stay.
Tang's culture flourished, complete and grand,
Talents filled the history books of the land.
Among them, whose poetic brush was fresh and new?
Counting on fingers, not even four or five will do.
Only Du Fu is called perfect and whole,
No poet then could match his lofty soul.
His brush chased pure breeze, cleansing vulgar ears,
His heart seized Creation, bringing spring's bright years.
Sky's light shines on Dongting's autumn clear,
Cold jade of lakes, vast shimmering sheer.
I've longed for him with thirst and hunger deep,
Not seeing his face, idle sorrows creep.
This spring, a guest on Leiyang road I stray,
In grief, I seek his riverside tomb today.
With friends, through mist we tread on purpose high,
Into the village, hundreds of steps go by.
I wave and ask a cow-riding lad,
The shepherd points the shrine path, not bad.
Entering, three or four old rooms appear,
Countless thatch weeds along the steps grow here.
Cold bamboos rustle in the evening breeze,
Wild vines layer the courtyard, twining with ease.
Ascending hall, I bow again, heart sore,
Wishing to pray, but words come out no more.
A mound of empty earth in misty waste,
Makes poets sigh in sorrow, sadly placed.
Complaints through ages to west wind are sent,
Cold bones in autumn water, one night spent.
Returning, white wine everywhere is found,
Fresh meat in every household now abounds.
Drinking and eating meat are now so rife,
Why don't commoners die from such a life?
Du Fu, hailed as talent on return,
Lord Nie's reception brought him no concern.
When the emperor sought talents once again,
Treacherous ministers deceived the sovereign then.
Chasing the moon, he walked into waves deep,
Loyal advice sank in Miluo's keep.
Thus Heaven's will has its own design,
Three sages to the same water align.
Passers-by leave poems by hundreds, it's said,
Fine words and phrases vainly praise the dead.
The tomb's empty, death by hunger known,
Who'll wash the shame through ages, overgrown?
In bright times, lovers of ancient ways hate vice,
They should, with my intent, know the true price.