#scholar
Wǔxíng Category: Water (水)
5-xx
A thick, curved sliver of the waxing gibbous climbs high,
Illuminating the heavy inkstone and the scholar's desk.
The mountain stream swells with the spring thaw,
Rushing past the bamboo gate and the smooth river stones.
Inside the courtyard, a round moon cake rests on jade,
Its sweet lotus center holding the promise of the full circle.
A white mist coils gracefully along the outer wall,
As the rising tide pools in the stone basins below.
The dark ink flows across the paper like a rising river,
Tracing the steady growth of the silver sky above us.
You began as a slender crescent, a sharp arc of light in the dark,
Carrying the ancient magic of the celestial dragon into my world.
Now we watch the night sky pull more brightness into the void,
Mirroring the way our lives are fusing together day by day.
Let the world wonder at the mystery of the sovereign spirit and the man,
I only see the fierce devotion that guides your steps to my side.
The light is expanding, and we are moving toward the full crest.
The crescent moon's early silver arc has given way to mass,
A heavy lantern of light reflecting on the water's surface.
The brush strokes grow bolder on the clean silk parchment,
Recording the moon's steady march toward absolute completeness.
The mountain winds grow quiet against the custom timber beams,
Leaving the central courtyard protected, warm, and still.
The white dragon rests her pearled coils near the wooden bench,
Her scales catching the brilliant gleam of the waxing sky.
The darkness yields as the silver canopy claims the night,
And in this rising radiance, your true spirit is laid bare.
You wonder how a simple keeper of ink and stone stands firm,
Unshaken by the wild, shifting currents of a dragon’s soul.
The sky does not fear the changing weight of its own light,
It simply holds the stars until the circle is made whole again.
I welcome the sharp, fierce edges just as I love the brilliant crest,
And if your steps falter in the shadow, my arms are already there.
The morning breaks bright upon the water, as my heart is bound to yours.
刘嘉文
© 2026 Liujiawen2024. All Rights
5d ago
May 29, 2026 at 2:07 PM UTC
Her hands are delicate from the burden she carries,
The lines seen on her palms trace journeys her ancestors traveled for her to be here today,
Her fingers grasp the pen firmly as she strokes a new narrative into existence,
Rings sparkle in the light with each motion as a symbol of sovereignty and culture,
Mehndi celebrates her heritage in a bashful pursuit for representation,
A female successor in the works,
Breaking the norms and defining her identity one step at a time.
May 7, 2021
May 7, 2021 at 12:35 PM UTC
A woman who shatters glass ceilings with cognition and reason fights with fortitude,
She is a scholar in the works,
Armed with ink and post-its she readily crafts her voice,
Expelling knowledge as she ventures into uncharted feats,
Victorious is her journey as she lives the unspoken dreams her ancestors could only fathom,
A testament to their contributions she decolonizes the dominant narrative,
Her enrollment is a keepsake for their sacrifices,
Marvel at her composition for resourceful and informed is her prose.
Dec 5, 2022
Dec 5, 2022 at 6:02 PM UTC
In the silence surrounding her she harbors solace,
with a candle burning her imagination and intuition is churning,
She scribes through the hours of the night to reason with the jigsaw of jargon outlined before her.
A scholar defying the norm,
a messy bun with a few strands undone,
that's the mark of her intellect,
it's the crown she carries.
Mar 3, 2021
Mar 3, 2021 at 8:44 PM UTC
a rise
Irondale as
home fries
are those
building law
in let
your love
of leaping
volt that
inquiry is
now our
world with
substance the
insistence only
flat with
an arc
of love
Oct 5, 2019
Oct 5, 2019 at 8:07 AM UTC
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.
Mar 13, 2019
Mar 13, 2019 at 1:47 PM UTC
A divine road awaited;
Above the university of pain,
A pathway to the fortune,
And mysticism of divine glory
The scholar beamed his delight,
Another student opened to the world’
; A World of fright
Of Darkness - Nobility,
Chivalry, and Solitude
Away the Scholar proclaimed,
“Tear down your artistic walls,
Turn yet another page
And let it echo through hallowed walls,
All the World’s a Stage.”
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 4:20 PM UTC
Like a scholar in love with life,
And a warrior in stormy rage,
That's how he lived,
And that that's how he lived,
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 8:47 PM UTC
I heard of a man
who never owned a
television.
Instead he bought
a set of solid oak
bookshelves stained
like mahogany.
With the money
he saved on cable,
he filled them with
classics like Plato,
Aristotle, and Dostoyevsky.
He studied Darwin
and Descartes, and
memorized poems by
Whyte and O'Donohue
Because he never
made the switch to
high definition, he
could afford trips to
Rome and Tuscany.
Walking those ancient
streets and resting
in those heavenly fields,
he learned the art
of attentiveness,
minding the
genius loci
of a place,
and setting
one's cadence to
the breath of the wind.
And in the end,
he had a few books
of his own,
but they taught
nothing new
other than
how to truly live.
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 10:16 PM UTC
He neither attended any college, nor did he go to school
He didn’t even know to read and write, I just labelled him as a fool...
But when I had a talk with him, he proved me wrong...
Behind stupid attire, he possessed knowledge
I can never extract, even if I study lifelong...
That day I learned an important thing,
Harsh realities of life teach you much better,
Than what they teach you at school...
And if you think you can survive this world only with theoretical knowledge,
You are no genius but just an arrogant fool...
At last I just want to thank that uneducated scholar,
For opening my eyes...
And guiding me on the path,
That leads to endless knowledge and ultimate truth of life...
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 11:24 PM UTC
"What price love?" The scholar asks
"Is it lust which breaks the bone?"
The rock he hefts leaves him bereft
Ossified as stone.
Here we have the question
As we lift the weighted pall
'Tis it better to have loved and fully lost
Than to never love at all?
SoulSurvivor
(C) 7/2/2016
Jul 2, 2016
Jul 2, 2016 at 4:12 PM UTC
The scholar sits,
To ponder his cursive.
Words are intangible;
Yet, so intricately immersing.
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 1:47 PM UTC
when we think about imagination,
We think about pieces of our childhood.
Leftover of the memories
They didn't wanted us to keep.
Ashes
Of our buried first consciousness,
Buried
Under a pile of society
Tossed by the shovel
Of humanity.
Shattered thougts.
Because they fear the ones
That know what's really worth it.
A child wouldn't choose a car
Or a smartphone
Before their friends.
They wouldn't.
Because our math tests became easier
When "I don't know" was a valid answer.
Now it is all about competition,
Now it is all about money,
And that's what makes someone
Rich.
And who's "powerful" will rule.
A kid is not afraid to fall
Because they'll stand up Again,
Maybe,
We have much to learn from them.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 11:27 PM UTC
The old fable covers a doctrine ever new and sublime; that there is One Man, — present to all particular men only partially, or through one faculty; and that you must take the whole society to find the whole man. Man is not a farmer, or a professor, or an engineer, but he is all. Man is priest, and scholar, and statesman, and producer, and soldier. In the divided or social state, these functions are parcelled out to individuals, each of whom aims to do his stint of the joint work, whilst each other performs his. The fable implies, that the individual, to possess himself, must sometimes return from his own labor to embrace all the other laborers. But unfortunately, this original unit, this fountain of power, has been so distributed to multitudes, has been so minutely subdivided and peddled out, that it is spilled into drops, and cannot be gathered. The state of society is one in which the members have suffered amputation from the trunk, and strut about so many walking monsters, — a good finger, a neck, a stomach, an elbow, but never a man.
Man is thus metamorphosed into a thing, into many things. The planter, who is Man sent out into the field to gather food, is seldom cheered by any idea of the true dignity of his ministry. He sees his bushel and his cart, and nothing beyond, and sinks into the farmer, instead of Man on the farm. The tradesman scarcely ever gives an ideal worth to his work, but is ridden by the routine of his craft, and the soul is subject to dollars. The priest becomes a form; the attorney, a statute-book; the mechanic, a machine; the sailor, a rope of a ship.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC