A Thousand Miles Away

For some reason I could not fall asleep that night, so I threw on my gown and strolled into the courtyard. It was quiet all around and a bright moon hung in the sky. I asked my servant to fetch me a writing brush and some ink so I could write a poem or two. As I picked up my brush, however, I did not know what to write, even though a lot of thoughts were surging within me. I decided to try alcohol, and right after taking a small cup, it occurred to me that it had been four years since you were first demoted to Liuzhou (in Guangxi), which was, after all, a primitive and isolated place. As a friend in need sharing a common misfortune, you certainly know how I would feel when I drink all by myself in the sole accompaniment of the moon.

There finally arose in the desolate courtyard the rustle of footsteps. A guard at the entrance was rushing to see me. He gave me a letter from Pei Xingli, the Military Observer of Hedong (in present-day Shanxi Province). I read the letter in trepidation, and my trembling hands knocked the wine cup down to the floor, where it shattered into pieces. The letter said that you had passed away a long time ago and that I was supposed to write an epitaph in your honor. Indeed, I had no idea how to begin.

Fine. Since ancient times Heaven has methodically intervened in the lives of the talented.

“The Tang Dynasty has always valued poetic talents, how did you end up being demoted to the wilderness thousands of miles away?” During the decade that you spent in Yongzhou, Hunan Province, after the failed Yongzhen Reform of 805 led by Wang Shuwen (753-806), you have certainly been through a lot – the pain of demotion, the loneliness in an alien land, you name it. For better or worse, I could in no way share all that with you. Over the years, you have kept sending me letters in which you told me about things in Yongzhou and sometimes even sent me your writings, the sorrowful tones of which made me wonder if you were indeed the author. How happy I was for you when I heard that His Majesty had called you back to the capital for a new position! After all, Yongzhou was not where you belonged.

Later on, I received the poem you had mailed me just before crossing the Miluo River. The poem would be resonating in my ears years thereafter.

As I return from the south,

I shall not let sadness overwhelm me as did Qu Yuan⁽¹⁾,

The day has come when I shall be a courtier again.

The spring breeze and the sages before me inspire me

To achieve things and live up to the enlightened era

So that this trip along the Miluo would not be in vain.

– Spring Breeze on the Miluo River by Liu Zongyuan⁽²⁾

After reading your poem, I couldn’t help worrying about you. After ten years’ suffering, are you going to be able to break new ground?

My concern turned out to be well-founded. This time it was Liuzhou, and Liu Yuxi (772-842), another poet who had left with you, headed to Bozhou (present-day Zunyi City, Guizhou Province).

A coworker said that you met with Liu Yuxi on a starry and moonlit night and that you guys wept together bitterly. You mentioned that life would be hard in Liuzhou and Bozhou was even more remote and a worse place to live in. Since Liu had family members at the capital, you do not have the heart to see him banished and wanted to switch places with him. Everyone was touched by your loyalty to friends. The next morning, you wrote a written request to the emperor to switch Liuzhou for Bozhou, indicating that you stood ready for harsher punishment, even death, for making this request.

On hearing this, I couldn’t hold back my tears. Men of letters with integrity best manifest their character and moral high ground when they are down. How could those smooth-talkers and sycophants ever be on the same footing as you?

It’s another moonlit night. The gatekeeper has served me another full cup of spirit. Brother, let me propose a toast to you in the moonlight.

Year in year out, the moon is always milky white and you and I are always so far apart.