When Li Bai gave up all his cultivation to revive the literary tradition, a drunk in a Chang’an tavern slapped the table and laughed:
“That Li Shier fellow claimed, ‘Heaven gave me talents, so surely they’ll be put to use.’ But look at his sword. Didn’t it end up as a stick for planting flowers?”
Spring breezes brushed past the window. The broken Green Lotus Sword stood slanted in the ruins,
and a new peach blossom sprouted from its guard.
