I, Du Mu, was the most promiscuous poet in the late Tang Dynasty.
My poem was once a song sung by the brothel singers, but now it is the clarion call for the imperial fleet to fight.
People in the world say that I am a romantic, and laugh at me for sleeping in ten years, but only dreaming about Yangzhou.
They don't understand.
When my ironclads crush the waves of the ocean, when my steam locomotives penetrate the backbone of Europe and Asia, when the Pope kisses my ring tremblingly in the Vatican...
The rules of this world have been rewritten by me.
In the Chang'an Palace, the blond European princess is reciting my poems in Wu Nong's soft language; on the shore of the East China Sea, the queen who has taken off her armor has learned to pour wine for me using Tang rites.
My romantic style makes the clothes of all nations worship me, and makes foreign civilizations whisper, merge and sink in my palace.
The world is already in the palm of my hand.
This time, which galaxy should I write my poem to?
