Loading
month record rogue 5 4 3
O Heaven, why do you look with but one eye wide?
O Earth, why do you shake like a swing on a branch?
Oh. I suppose I am drunk once more.
The poet faces the twin moons as she lies in the center of the lake, pondering her lot. A moment ago, she was on a boat on the lake. Not wishing to drink alone, she invited Heaven to imbibe as well, yet Heaven's position up high troubled her. And so, she leapt into the lake. By lying down upon its surface, she would be 'face to face' with the heavens, and need not raise her head. With her body as a boat, she puttered about the lake, and drank deep alongside the sky. Thus, she got drunk.
Content in her cups, and with such a pleasant view, she does not wish to sober up, and knows not where the current might take her, or for how long. All she knows is that partway through her journey, some unremarkable reeds have blocked her way. The reeds wobble, pulling her up in an attempt to flip her over. It seems the wind is murmuring to her—
'The True Lung decrees—'
'She's dead drunk.'
'What shall we do, then?'
'How do we report this?'
Sigh. The reed's words too are dull.
Naturally, she tells them the truth. She is drinking with Heaven, and has no time to mind them. And so, she brushes aside the reed, and continues drifting onwards.
Yet before she has drifted much longer, she spies a great colossus slowly rise. At first, it is but a lump of iron, one that gradually grows into a Feranmut just like It. It towers as it heads to shore, covered in steel as if forged from metal.
As if it were It.
She speaks to 'It' in wonder. 'Have you awoken? Or perhaps it is I who has not?'
'Its' steely form replies to her with creaking metal.
She then asks: 'Once, you looked t'wards the distant lantern lights of men. How do you feel, now that you bear them upon your back?'
All 'It' says are some monotonous creaks.
She appreciates the lights upon 'Its' back with great interest, before letting out a quiet sigh. 'Pity. I cannot lie upon the lake like this.'
Once more she drifts onwards, watching mountains move and fields shift, while men come and go. She sees more and more Feranmuts of steel grow. Reeds rustle, while fowlbeasts skim against the water. She watches them through the haze of liquor, until she has finally seen her fill.
She sits up. As she sobers from her grand inebriation, her eyes see a city, one unfamiliar yet familiar. A century of drunkenness, and Yan is no longer Yan as it once was.
A muddled memory comes to her—
'The True Lung decrees—'
Ah. That 'reed' was a court mandarin. Her lack of concern is hardly anything to be concerned about. She unstoppers her wine gourd, and sprinkles the scant drops of wine left onto the lake. 'To those long gone.' Slinging her gourd across her back, she steps towards the city of steel.
