In the West, poets like Byron and Verlaine sang of longing — of beauty fading, love unfulfilled, and the soul's quiet ache beneath the moon. In China, centuries before, Liu Yong turned those same human tremors into verses that shimmered with both passion and wisdom.
Northern Song Dynasty, around 1020 CE
The night breeze over Bianjing (modern Kaifeng) carried the scent of plum blossoms and faint laughter from the riverside taverns. Liu Yong, already half drunk, dipped his brush into ink and began another poem on silk. Around him, music drifted from the courtesans' quarters — soft pipa notes echoing through the mist.
He wrote slowly, as if every stroke were a sigh.
"The long street fades, lamps like stars.Whose heart still beats beneath parting skies?"
A courtesan leaned closer, her eyes bright. "Master Liu," she teased, "you write of love, yet you never seem to keep it."
Liu Yong smiled sadly. "I write what love leaves behind — the silence after the song. That's when truth speaks loudest."
He lifted his cup, gazing at the ripples of wine. His fame had spread through the capital, yet officials mocked him, calling his verses 'vulgar' for their tenderness. They preferred grand odes to power; he sang instead of hearts that dared to feel.
In his lyrics, longing became philosophy. To Liu Yong, desire was not weakness but reflection — proof that even fleeting joys revealed life's impermanence. He once said, "To write of sorrow is not to lament it, but to understand it."
When dawn came, mist veiled the river. Liu Yong stood on the bridge, watching the first light touch the roofs of the city. He whispered, "A poem is but a mirror. The face fades, but the reflection endures."
As the city awoke and Liu Yong's song dissolved into morning air, another scholar far away sat reading by lamplight, his gaze steady, his ambition firm. Where Liu Yong found truth in feeling, Fan Zhongyan sought it in discipline and purpose — believing that wisdom must serve not the self, but the state.