Chapter 22: Poetry Resounds Far and Wide, Towering Over the Age

Liu Zhenyun immediately froze, afraid of startling Wei Ming’s inspiration.

At that moment, Wei Ming asked him: “Did you bring paper?”

Liu Zhenyun blinked: Paper? Are you saying you’ve got shit?

Wei Ming added: “And a pen—hurry, write it down, it’s slipping away! Quick!”

“Oh oh!” Liu Zhenyun was immensely relieved—he always carried a pen and small notebook to capture fleeting moments of inspiration.

Then Wei Ming began reciting a poem; Liu Zhenyun assumed it would be just a short passage, but before he knew it, over ten minutes had passed!

His hand could barely keep up with Wei Ming’s pace—it was an epic poem!

It filled several pages before he finished writing!

Wei Ming completed the entire poem in one uninterrupted breath, without a single pause!

After finishing, Wei Ming brushed an invisible sleeve and said, “Done and dusted—remember to treat me,” then vanished without altering a single word.

What a sublime, masterly air!

Liu Zhenyun stared, dazed and awestruck—he knew this was a realm he could never reach.

On the way back to the dorm, he kept his head down, eyes never leaving the notebook—each line struck him like lightning, his heart remained deeply unsettled.

Inside Building 32, he accidentally bumped into Qiang Ge of the ’77 Law Department, but luckily the man was easygoing.

Male students from the Chinese Department lived on the third and fourth floors; Liu Zhenyun’s room was 406, notable for its “rusticity”—nearly all its residents were rural students, diligent and earnest in their studies.

Before entering the dorm, he met Luo Yihé, a junior from ’79 Chinese, who also wrote poetry.

Though Luo was from Beijing, he had spent his childhood laboring with his parents in rural Henan.

So he got along well with Liu Zhenyun: “Hey, senior, what’re you staring at so intently?”

“Looking at treasure!” Liu Zhenyun laughed. “Luo, you love poetry—come in and appreciate it with me.”

“Who wrote it? Old Xiong?”

Inside the room, Liu Zhenyun announced: “I’ve got a poem by Wei Ming.”

The name “Wei Ming” had become known throughout the Chinese Department by yesterday.

“Ah, not a novel? I like novels,” Lao Tian said.

Xiao Yang in the dorm said: “Don’t read it yet—I’ll go call Old Xiong. He’s been coming back and forth.”

So Liu Zhenyun never opened the notebook, no matter how much others begged.

Soon, Xiong Guang arrived—not alone, but with several seniors from ’77 Chinese: Gao Xianjun, Huang Ziping, Su Mu, and Liang Zuo.

Old Xiong clapped Liu Zhenyun on the shoulder: “Little Liu, you’ve got something, right? It’s a poem!”

“Yes.”

“You read it.”

“Alright.”

Liu Zhenyun cleared his throat and solemnly recited: “‘Ideal,’ by Wei Ming.

Ideal is stone, striking sparks from stars;

Ideal is fire, igniting extinguished lamps;

Ideal is lamp, lighting the path through night;

Ideal is path, guiding you to dawn.”

Xiong Guang nodded—it was interesting. Such neatly structured parallelism was out of fashion now; everyone preferred poems without rules.

But achieving elegance in this linked-structure form required real skill—Wei Ming had clearly mastered it, and with great power.

Still not done, Liu Zhenyun continued:

“In times of hunger and cold, ideal is warmth and food;

In times of warmth and food, ideal is civilization.

In times of chaos, ideal is peace.

In times of peace, ideal is prosperity.”

Another tightly structured passage—using the rhetorical device of chain repetition. Though the words were plain, they struck straight at the deepest yearnings of the human heart.

“Little Liu, let me read a bit,” Xiong Guang, itching to speak, took the notebook from Liu Zhenyun.

“Ideal is a pearl, strung one to another.

Linking past and future, glowing endlessly.

A beautiful string of pearls, the backbone of history.

The past illuminates the present, the present illuminates the future, ancestors illuminate descendants.

Ideal is a compass, guiding ships on their course;

Ideal is a ship, carrying you out to sea.

But ideal is sometimes the curve where sea meets sky.

Visible but unattainable, tormenting your striving heart.”

After finishing, Xiong Guang fell into thought and asked: “Who else wants to read?”

The youngest, Luo Yihé, took the notebook.

“Ideal makes you smile at life;

Ideal makes you stubbornly defy fate. Ideal makes you forget your temples have turned white;

Ideal makes you, though white-haired, remain innocent.”

He had barely finished four lines when someone snatched the notebook away.

Liang Zuo, short and slightly chubby, read in a serious Beijing accent: “Ideal is an alarm clock, shattering your golden dreams;

Ideal is soap, washing away your selfishness.

Ideal is both an acquisition,

And a sacrifice.”

Someone else immediately took the notebook:

“If ideal brings you honor,

That is merely its byproduct;

More often it brings the loneliness of misunderstanding,

Laughter within loneliness, bitterness within laughter.”

The next reader, while reciting, waved his arms:

“Ideal makes the faithful suffer misfortune;

Ideal gives the wretched a way out.

!

Ordinary people become great through ideal;

Those who have ideal are ‘great men’!”

Each stanza, each verse, raised the emotion higher—the whole room fell into a kind of feverish excitement; even the student who claimed to prefer novels recited a passage with great fervor.

Room 406 had drawn the attention of neighboring dorms, all gathering around.

Because the poem was long, everyone took a turn, and finally it returned to Liu Zhenyun’s hands.

Only one page remained—he would deliver the finale.

“When ideal blooms, peaches and plums bear sweet fruit;

When ideal sprouts, elms and poplars cast thick shade.

Ride the steed of ideal, whip in hand, set forth now;

The road ahead is bright with spring, the sky above is clear and sunny.”

Around them, people murmured the final lines: “The road ahead is bright with spring, the sky above is clear and sunny.”

Then erupted a thunderous, prolonged applause—as if it would lift the dorm roof off.

A student from ’78 asked: “Who wrote this poem? It’s amazing—I feel full of strength just listening!”

“Magnificent and grand—truly a masterpiece!”

“I feel energized too, warm all over—I want to rush out and join the Four Modernizations right now!”

One of Liu Zhenyun’s dormmates said: “It’s written by Wei Ming, the gatekeeper at the South Gate—and his novel is about to be published in ‘Shouhuo’!”

“This guy’s a genius! This poem’s incredible—pass it around, let us copy it!”

“Yes! I want to copy it too—I’ll paste it on my wall!”

And clever Luo Yihé had already pulled out paper and pen, scribbling furiously.

At that moment, Liu Zhenyun raised his hand—he had more to say: “Classmates, let me tell you how this poem was written—Wei Ming is even more talented than you imagine!

I originally came to him on behalf of ‘Weiminghu’ to commission a piece. At first he refused—he was submitting his novel to magazines for income to support his family. So I said, then write a poem—just a short one.

He replied that poetry requires inspiration and passion, and he didn’t have the theme I wanted.

I took my leave. Then guess what happened?”

As everyone waited eagerly, he tactfully took a sip of water, then spoke slowly:

“I had barely taken seven steps—seven steps! Not one more, not one less—when Wei Ming called out to me: ‘Damn! Got it! Got it! Got it!’

Then he told me to pull out paper and pen. Luckily I had them—he recited while I wrote, in one continuous flow, without pause, and not a single word was changed. Then he just walked away.”

“Whoa!” The whole room erupted—even Luo Yihé, who was copying the poem, nearly dropped his jaw.

This poem, paired with this story—unbeatable!

“Is this real?” someone questioned. Though Cao Zhi once composed a poem in seven steps, he was one of the greatest literary geniuses in history!

And that was a five-character poem of just a few dozen characters, while Wei Ming’s poem, by rough count, must be six hundred characters at least!

Did he write such a long poem without even drafting it?

That’s simply miraculous!

Facing some people’s doubts, Liu Zhenyun swore: “I’ll stake my head on it—every word is true!”

Hearing Liu Zhenyun say that, most of them believed him.

Xiong Guangjiong stepped forward and said: “Though none of us could produce such a thing, I believe geniuses exist in this world—Wei Ming is clearly a genius far beyond our reach. I’ve decided: this poem will be published in the first issue of Weiminghu!”

“Aren’t the layouts already finalized?” someone asked.

As chief editor of Weiminghu, Xiong Guangjiong said seriously: “This poem, ‘The Song of Ideal,’ is like the earnest counsel of a wise elder to us young college students—every word a pearl, every line truth. If placed on the inaugural issue of Weiminghu, it will surely inspire not just Peking University students, but all youth across China. I believe this holds great significance.”

Liu Zhenyun raised his hand: “I agree!”

Xiong Guangjiong: “Good, then remove your short story and make space for ‘Ideal.’”

Liu Zhenyun: “Huh?”

……

(Let’s update this chapter early—it’s the end of the month, time to clear votes~ Lao Fo or2~)

(End of Chapter)