The Twenty-Four Chapters

The Truth of Magical Realism

The ancient city of Ye, once a royal domain in the land of Yin. Watered by the Zhang River, the ruins of an ancient capital. It stands beside Lingchuan and leans against the Taihang Mountains, accompanied by the Qian River and the Yunmeng marshes. The legacy of generations sinks into dusk, its splendor veiling the farthest reaches of the stars; benevolence and virtue illuminate the palace, while spirits of the firmament hide at the edge of the Jade Star. Maple woods locked in emerald, all dyed the blue of rosy clouds. Carriages and riders forge a splendid road between Chinese and foreign lands, their grace and bearing the finest of heroes. In years past, princes and nobles offered wine at the feast, precious words shining bright; today, ministers of the starry court display their stately bearing. At the Orchid Pavilion, young and old gathered for the spring purification rite. Peach and plum blossoms vied in beauty, with talents assembled in profusion. Golden crowns gleamed in the sun, their wearers’ writings fit for the nation’s finest; brocade dazzled the night, their mastery of ritual and music worthy of a teacher. Silver saddles shone on horseback, jade flutes marked the seasons. Robes and shoes soared toward the clouds, pearls filled the sea.

A hero, a wanderer from the Eastern Sea, brimming with boundless ambition. …

Someday, a brush will sweep across the page, and phoenixes will soar and dance; today, wings spread wide, ink adds clouds and rosy hues. The Flying General was granted a fief, yet gazed at the Golden Mountain with a sigh; Zhang Liang completed his mission, so why worry over schemes and stratagems? Alas! The old land remains a source of sorrow, its light reflected in waters that flow away; time passes swiftly, and the ancient hometown drifts away on the wind. By the window, my heart is full, grateful that fate let us meet; leaning on the railing, I gaze into the distance, wishing to entrust my sorrow to the worthy. I dare to give voice to my feelings, humbly offering a few brief words; essays and leisurely verse, nine rhymes all complete. Let us stain the River of Clouds, each writing elegant words in vivid hues:

A clear mind welcomes the empty sky, all things fall silent as they await the flow.

I cross mountains and seas to cut cloud brocade, splashing ink across the stars to dye rosy silk.

A thousand-year dream awakens, leaving the mark of a startled swan; one stroke remains, bearing witness to an old promise.

Years fly like shuttles, weaving golden threads; life is like dew, avoiding a journey of missteps.

Seeds hidden in a bright mirror reflect the vast sky; I watch the waves in a secluded pool, stilling the surging flood.

Flowers bloom between heaven and earth, startling dragons into song; souls return to the nine abysses, quelling the phoenix’s decree.

Karma cycles round as we consult the Northern Dipper; the Way returns to its origin and transforms the southern cosmos.

Ghosts and gods fold their robes and knock at heaven’s gate; reality and illusion overlap, forging human bonds.

A thousand autumns pass in a moment at the place where all returns to the void; the river moon shines silently on the old garrison.