Two mischievous children in the Taiqing Deep Palace, who neither chant sutras nor ring the bell. Their cultivation under the Three Pure Ones is going well, so they’ll try brewing new tea with the new wine. The mortal world’s rain, the Top Scholar’s Red: if you won’t let it happen, I won’t stop.
One says: “My red wine is no ordinary drink. It needs to be warmed over a good, blazing fire, day after day. Take three parts of the bustle of the marketplace, add two parts of the joy of reunion, then three parts of a mighty army. One part is a civil official’s remonstrance, shaking the court; one part is a general’s blade, guarding the battlefield. Gather ten parts of blazing heat, and out comes the Top Scholar, clanging and ringing.”
The other says: “Our rain has its origins in the world of men, where true feelings are gathered in full. Five drops are a mother hoping her son will return soon; two are a wife longing for her husband to come home. Three drops are a father wishing his son will make something of himself, and praying for his safety. Gather ten drops of clear, clear tears, and the flavor of the mortal world comes with the rain.”
The mad Daoist says: “Your wine won’t go down easily. It needs a man with a hook-shaped blade at his side, a flying general sleeping drunk in Dragon City, reclaiming the fifty provinces beyond the passes. One drink for the splendor of the land, a second for the alleys of Chang’an, a third for thoughts of one’s parents.”
The free-spirited Daoist says: “Your wine is the gentlest of all. It needs a lovely woman whose jade pendants chime. Before the wine reaches her lips, she hides her face; only after a thousand calls does she finally appear. One drink to return home, a second as pear blossoms bloom, a third as dreams break one’s heart.”
Looks good.