In the West, Romantic poets like Shelley and Keats chased the sublime — beauty that lies beyond reason, glimpsed only in dream or drunken ecstasy. In China, centuries earlier, Li Bai lived that vision. He was both poet and wanderer, sage and child of the moon, whose nights in Chang'an blurred the line between art and eternity.
Tang Dynasty, around 744 CE
The streets of Chang'an shimmered beneath a thousand lanterns. Perfumed smoke curled through the air, carrying laughter and music from the wine pavilions. Amid the revelers walked Li Bai, robes loose, eyes bright with the reflection of the moon hanging above the imperial capital.
He had come from the mountains, carrying verses in his heart and wine in his sleeve. The city, with all its splendor, could not confine him. He drifted between nobles and monks, scholars and swordsmen, his words lighting every hall he entered.
That night, a minister invited him to a banquet beside the Qujiang River. Music played, silk fans fluttered, and cups overflowed. Li Bai, already half-drunk, rose to his feet. "Why chase glory," he declared, "when the moon asks for company?" He walked out to the terrace, looked up, and toasted the sky.
The guests followed in silence. His voice lifted with the wind — reciting lines that would echo for centuries:
"I raise my cup to invite the bright moon,and with my shadow, we become three."
The river shimmered as if bowing to his words. In that instant, Chang'an itself seemed to hold its breath. Some said he was a madman; others called him immortal. To Li Bai, it made no difference. He wrote not to be remembered, but to be alive in the moment of creation — when man, moon, and wine became one.
Later, as he staggered through the quiet alleys, he met an old hermit sweeping fallen blossoms from a temple gate. "You write as if heaven listens," the hermit said softly.
Li Bai smiled. "It does," he whispered. "But only when the heart is silent enough to sing."
He vanished into the night, his laughter mingling with the sound of the river — a melody that would never end.
As dawn brushed the city walls with silver, the echoes of Li Bai's laughter faded into the stillness of memory. Yet not all poets sought transcendence through joy. In another corner of the Tang Dynasty, a quieter soul would gaze upon the same world — seeing not dream, but duty; not intoxication, but truth. His name was Du Fu, and his poetry would weave wisdom from the threads of human suffering and endurance.