A brush, ink long dried, its shaft polished smooth. Zhang Qiu once wrote countless poems with it, and petiti…
A brush, ink long dried, its shaft polished smooth.
Zhang Qiu once wrote countless poems with it, and petitions pleading for his friend's honor.
He vowed to write his friend's biography for all to admire.
But in the end, he couldn't even compose a single poem for him.
Chu Xiu is gone—wailing, vomiting blood. Today, my heart feels like a fallen soldier.
Grief unbearable, cold air chokes all appetite.