In the West, poets like Dante and Milton turned personal struggle into verse—using poetry not as escape, but as resistance. In China, Lu You did the same: transforming frustration, love, and unfulfilled duty into timeless words that still burn with conviction.
Southern Song Dynasty, around 1180 CE
A soft rain fell over Shaoxing as Lu You sat beneath an old plum tree, the scent of blossoms mingling with the ink that slowly dried on his desk. His beard had grown white, yet his eyes still carried the glint of defiance—the light of a heart that refused to grow old.
Before him lay the scroll of a new poem, its first line trembling with both sorrow and strength. "To serve my country," he murmured, "is my life's unfinished dream." The candle beside him flickered, casting long shadows across the room.
Lu You had once held office, but his loyalty and blunt honesty clashed with those in power. Stripped of his post, he returned to his hometown, where the empire's decline and his own fading years pressed heavily upon him. Yet from that pain came poetry—lines of steel wrapped in silk, lament and pride woven into each character.
"Master Lu," his friend asked one evening, "do you not tire of writing about what cannot change?"
Lu You smiled faintly. "Change begins in the heart," he said. "When a man ceases to speak his truth, the world grows silent. I may not hold a sword, but my words—perhaps they will live where I cannot."
Later that night, he walked alone through the plum orchard. A nightingale called from the branches above, and in that moment, Lu You felt both joy and melancholy—the mingling of what was lost and what endured. The moon rose through drifting mist, and he whispered a final line: "Even in death, my heart will still dream of returning home."
The ink dried. The candle went out. But the poem remained, carrying the echo of a man whose will was boundless, even as his world crumbled.
As the plum blossoms fell like snow, Lu You's words took root beyond his time—seeds of persistence in a weary age. Yet while he found purpose in emotion, others sought truth in structure and principle. One philosopher would distill the vastness of life into four simple sentences—each one a mirror of the universe itself. His name was Zhang Zai, and his "Four Sentences of Hengqu" would reshape the very language of wisdom.