With deepest reverence, Feng Dao bows before Master Crane: The spring mountains lie in silence, and the winds…
With deepest reverence, Feng Dao bows before Master Crane:
The spring mountains lie in silence, and the winds through the pines sound like weeping. It has been three years since you rode the crane into the distance. I often recall our old discussions on the ancient scholastic ideals, where you vowed to "enlighten all under heaven." Today, the disciples of Dragonbend Academy have scattered across the realm, successfully passing on the torch of your teachings. I write to respectfully report this to you.
Yang Que of Huaiyang, who received your direct instruction, has now established a scholarly society in Chenzhou. He gathers pupils and has restored the local academies; countless gentry travel miles with books on their backs to attend, vividly recreating the revered scholastic spirit of old.
Li Shandao of Lushan journeyed south bearing the scrolls you bestowed upon him. He built a retreat beneath the Five Elders Peak, and the sound of chanting echoes endlessly from the White Deer Cave. Scholars from Jiangzhou pack their own rations just to follow him. In other lands like Yuelu and Songyang, new thatched academies are constantly rising. Books gleam across the fields, and the sounds of recitation answer each other from dawn to dusk.
I have observed the heavens and seen the Literary Star shining brightly over the Central Plains. You once said, "The shackles upon the mind's gate cannot be shattered by axes and halberds." Now, a sliver of light has pierced through, and a clear breeze blows gently in. Though there has been no clash of arms, the thirst for knowledge flourishes. This is truly the culmination of your twenty years of blood and sweat.
Yet the rivers and mountains remain the same, lacking only the cry of the azure crane in the sky. Whenever I see new bamboo breaking through the rocks at the foot of Dragonbend Mountain, I picture you leaning on your staff, quietly watching the fields. Disciples now gather like clouds, but none have the fortune to see you step up to the hall with a book in hand. This will forever be the greatest regret in my heart.
The timely rain has fallen, but the one who seeded the clouds knows not the grace it brings; the spark has been struck, but the one who lit it cannot see the prairie ablaze. How deeply it grieves me! I can only pour this cup of wine upon the earth, right where you once held the torch.
As my brush touches the paper, my heart is lost in sorrow, and I know not what else to say.