Chapter Twelve: Composing Poems in Seven Steps

The polished floor of finest white jade shimmered with a gentle, lustrous glow. In the distance, wisps of mist seemed to veil indistinct palaces. The carved sandalwood eaves soared with phoenixes poised for flight, blue-tiled lattice windows and walls stacked with jade stones completed the scene.

The inner court of the imperial palace blazed with lantern light. Now that envoys from every quarter had returned, princes and lords bowed and paid homage to the Emperor, and even foreign lands beyond the realm sent tribute and declared fealty to Emperor Ling of Han, greatly satisfying his inner longing for supremacy.

Though plagued by illness, on this day Emperor Ling appeared radiant, hosting a grand banquet for envoys and border ministers alike, to manifest the Han dynasty’s boundless inclusiveness.

Amber wine, jade goblets, golden-footed cups, and emerald platters—dishes like paintings, wine flowing as springs, the soft strains of the guqin, the clear chime of bells. All around the great hall, bell-shaped blossoms adorned the walls, their white petals gleaming with a translucent porcelain sheen, the tips ringed by delicate shades of lavender, as if dipped in celestial dye.

Emperor Ling had spared no effort for this feast—fine wines, exquisite art, heavenly beauties—to showcase the strength and splendor of the Han dynasty, though the Yellow Turban rebels had left him vexed and weary.

Fortunately, not all at court were useless wastrels. The Yellow Turban army had been largely destroyed, their threat all but crushed. Yet now the border governors, armed with military power, grew restless, their ambitions swelling. The Emperor knew his own frail body would not endure much longer; this banquet was the perfect occasion to remind them where true authority lay.

All under heaven covet the throne, seeing only its glory and wealth, one man above all others, basking in splendor. But who can fathom the sorrows of the Emperor?

Alas…

Hearing of the banquet, Zifan arrived early at the palace.

As the saying goes, clothes make the man. What a striking youth—white robes brighter than snow, hair black as ink, eyes lively and radiant, unmatched in elegance.

As a modern man attending such an imperial feast for the first time, Zifan felt a nervous unease, though he forced himself to appear calm.

Glancing around, he saw many border lords and high officials already seated, each vying for the positions of honor that signified their status.

Seizing his chance, Zifan did the opposite, quickly taking a seat near the entrance. Silently he thought, “The court is a battlefield; I have no desire to sink deeper into this mire. Not a single simple soul here—every one is a sly old fox.”

Upon the golden dragon throne sat the lord of the Han realm. Though gravely ill, he still exuded a singular kingly presence. From his vantage, Emperor Ling saw clearly all that transpired below. Noticing Zifan take a seat by the door, he could not help but smile and shake his head.

Interesting! How interesting…

Below, music soared and sleeves fluttered in a festival of song and dance, incense curling in the air.

Delicious, delicious…

Zifan paid no heed to the grandeur, casting aside all decorum—he ate with gusto, for the pleasures of good food were joy itself.

Isn’t living just about being carefree and happy?

In the rear palace, beauties as luminous as jade, riding dragon-shaped mounts eight feet long, danced gracefully.

Good heavens!

Even the palace dancers, each with delicate skin and slender waists, would be unrivaled beauties in the modern world. No wonder ancient emperors were always in frail health. Thinking this, Zifan looked up to glance at Emperor Ling on his throne.

At that very moment, Emperor Ling was also surveying the hall. Their eyes met—an awkward moment indeed.

The banquet bustled with lively music and endless toasts, guests speaking with cheerful abandon, the atmosphere warm and convivial.

“Which among you, dear ministers, can compose a poem or a couplet in honor of this banquet?” the Emperor called. “Who will begin?”

Tonight is a splendid feast, its joys beyond recounting.
Zithers ring out with spirited notes, new melodies enchanting the soul.
Virtuous men sing noble words, the wise discern their truth.
With hearts united in shared wishes, thoughts yet unspoken linger.
Life is but a fleeting sojourn, vanishing like dust on the wind.
Why not spur on your swift steeds, and seize the vital crossing first?

“Your servant wishes Your Majesty a long life, may you reign for a thousand ages, a paragon for all time, wise in both civil and martial arts.”

“Long live the Emperor! Long live the Emperor!” the ministers echoed.

“Excellent, excellent!” the Emperor declared. “Does any among you wish to continue?” Flattered by their praise, Emperor Ling grew even more pleased.

“I have heard that Wu Zifan, Sima of Youzhou, is famed for his literary talent. Perhaps he would honor us with a verse?”

Disaster often comes from careless words, trouble falls from the sky…

Following the voice, Zifan saw a shifty-eyed official bowing. Zifan, who had come only to enjoy the food and drink, now felt a surge of nervousness.

When did I offend this man? I can’t recall…

It turned out the man had once been slated for the Sima post in Youzhou, but Zifan had taken it ahead of him. Long resentful, he now sought to embarrass Zifan at this banquet.

“Oh? Then, Zifan, would you oblige us with a poem?” Emperor Ling asked, curious.

“At your command.”

Pressed suddenly, Zifan’s heart pounded, words stuck in his throat.

If only I’d studied harder in school back in the modern world! What’s the use of regret now? Those nearby watched his struggle with secret delight.

Long hairpins dangle, twin dragonflies at the ends,
Jade mountains open like painted screens.
Bearded nobles, guests of five marquises,
Drink a thousand cups with ease.
Phoenixes sing in mournful tones, melodious and unending,
Brows arched, sleeves swirling like drifting snow.
On this clear night, all share the Emperor’s favor,
Let not the waters divide east from west.

Upright candles drip fragrant tears, pearls of wax nearly spent,
Hidden dew and morning breeze chill the silk curtains.
Banners flutter in stately procession,
Twenty-four dragon-painted poles in line.

Pipes and strings blend in intricate tunes,
Fragrant cups brim with spring wine.
Guests scatter from the high pavilion, apricot blossoms abound,
A new moon gazes down, watchful and bright.

What a wonderful line—“On this clear night, all share the Emperor’s favor, let not the waters divide east from west.” I am most pleased! Rare indeed is a minister whose feelings match my own. A fine poem!

Brother Zifan, such talent! I have heard the ancients could compose a poem in nine steps—could you do the same?

Seeing his challenger’s aggressive stance, Zifan’s anger flared. “Your Majesty, I need not nine steps—seven will suffice.”

“Do not be provoked, dear minister. To compose a poem in seven steps is no easy feat. Give it due thought,” the Emperor cautioned.

But the petty official pressed on. “I am Li Nai, and I’ve served at court for over a decade. Seven steps to a poem? Impossible! Boast too much, and you’ll trip over your own tongue.”

“Do you dare wager on it?” Zifan stepped forward, chest held high.

“Very well! If you achieve it, I shall retire to my estate.”

“I beg Your Majesty to set the theme,” Zifan said with a bow.

“Mid-Autumn is approaching—let that be your subject,” Emperor Ling said, smiling with relish at the unfolding scene.

When did the blue sky first see the moon?
Tonight I pause my cup and ask it anew.

“Well done! Well done!” murmured the guests, nodding in approval.

Men reach for the moon but cannot grasp it,
Yet as it moves, it follows them always.

In an instant, the more literary among the ministers gave Zifan new respect; to compose such lines, he was truly their peer.

Bright as a flying mirror above the vermilion palaces,
Emerald mists vanish, pure radiance shines forth.
At night the moon rises from the sea,
Who knows where it will set amid the clouds?
The jade rabbit pounds medicine as autumn turns to spring,
Chang’e dwells alone—who is her neighbor?

Zifan spoke again, “This poem is called ‘Raising My Cup to Ask the Moon.’”

“Brother Zifan, what fine talent!”

“A splendid composition!” Emperor Ling nodded in approval.