Blood soaked flowers,
Clouded moon,
Drifting memories,
I will leave before you.

Oh Immortal ones,
Let blood streak the sea,
For my anger has been provoked.

Ten years to master a spear,
A hundred to master the sword,
But an eternality to master the brush.

A spear, I used, to hold a fortress,
A sword unsheathed, the heavens fears,
But a brush in hand, ten thousand enlightened.

Ah, is not the spear a weapon of soldiers,
The sword, the hero's friend,
At last, the brush is the sage's kin.

Why shed blood of a thousand men,
Why not teach immortals and men.

A sip of wine,
I question my fate as do I the heavens,
A sip of wine,
Must a carp forever stay a carp never to ascend,
A sip of wine,
Must a tiger's soul be born as a cat,
A sip of wine,
Must a baby chick never take off into a condor,
A sip of wine,
Is the cup not but empty.

The winds of autumn,
The Emperor's robe flutter.

The storms of spring,
His heart's in anger.

The frost of winter,
A thousand men dies.

The warmth of summer,
Peace for mankind.

Dressed in steel,
Spear in hand,
The general conquers in four directions.

Dressed in law,
Brush in hand,
The minister governs all ranks of men.

Dressed in Gold,
Wine in hand,
The Emperor watches as his empire grow.

For ten long years, a brush in hand,
Its ink stained bristles, as yet, untried.
Today, I hold It before the court of kings;
For all I seek is recognition and ink.