Chapter 29: Throwing Poems at People

  "Brush, brush, brush!" Countless eyes focused on Fan Xian's body, he smiled shyly, cupped his hands, and didn't pretend to be an artist with a floral headscarf, after all, he was Fan Xian, not Fan Wei.

  The crown prince looked at him like this, almost laughing out loud. He wouldn't believe what Miss Fan said. A ten-year-old boy might be able to write good poetry, but such a carefully crafted poem of courtesy, he shouldn't have written it. He estimated that Fan Xian wrote it last night and deliberately let Fan Ruoruo take it out today to shock everyone at the poetry meeting.

  He didn't dislike these, but instead found them somewhat interesting. Someone like Fan Xian, who seemed so carefree, could actually write such a poem. Fan Xian had no idea what the Crown Prince of Jing was thinking, he only knew that this poem, which was written by Meng Haoran to flatter Zhang Jiuling in his previous life, was still slightly better than the level of these people, so he was very satisfied. At least, this satisfied the entrustment of his father.

  Guo Baokun looked at the gaze of the people in the field, his heart filled with great anger. He never expected that this "embroidered pillow" would have such a lifesaving poem. He refused to give up and coldly said: "I wonder if Brother Fan has any other excellent works? After all, this is your... masterpiece from when you were ten years old."

  The words in the poem clearly indicate that he does not believe this poem was written by himself.

  Fan Xian sighed inwardly, thinking why there were always people who liked to force him to do these things. As for composing poetry and lyrics, in this world, who else could be his opponent? After all, he was a monster with the spirits of Li Bai, Du Fu, and Su Shi attached to him, with 5,000 years of poetic power bestowed upon him. He smiled and replied, "I've never been one for writing essays on assigned topics."

  Guo Baokun looked at him with a fearless expression, gritted his teeth and said: "Then please, Brother Fan, go ahead and compose a poem, let the talented scholars of Kyoto see what you're capable of."

  Fan Xian furrowed his brow, gave the annoying guy a cold glance, and then tossed out a poem before standing up to leave the garden. Under the guidance of the Wang Fu attendants, he headed off to use the restroom as well.

  As soon as this poem was written, it caused a stir, astonishing everyone in the garden. The falling flowers and flowing water swept away thousands of troops.

  After a burst of applause, everyone savored the aftertaste, and Guo Baokun's face was also green and white, not knowing what to say. The young master couldn't care about how to hold his fan without being criticized by Fan Xian for his lack of elegance, and with a "pa" sound, he closed his fan and recited:

  "The wind is swift and the sky is high, the apes wail in sorrow. The river is clear and the sand is white, the birds fly back. Endless leaves fall rustling down, the great river flows on and on. For ten thousand miles, autumn's sorrow makes me a constant guest, for a hundred years, illness has made me climb alone to the tower. Hardship and bitter resentment have turned my temples grey, I've knocked over and abandoned my cup of cloudy wine."

  ……

  ……

  "Sorrow, clarity, boundlessness, endlessness, a thousand miles, autumn, guest, a hundred years, illness, solitude, eternal sorrow, all in one cup of turbid wine! Good poem, good poem!" The young master exclaimed loudly, but suddenly thought of his father, who appeared to be carefree on the surface but was actually tormented by worries. For some reason, he felt a pang in his heart, and then another, shaking his head silently for a long time.

  It wasn't until much later that he came back to his senses. You, Fan Xian, are still young, although your life has been bitter and hard, how can you say that your hair is white with illness? This is truly inexplicable, completely unreasonable. But the crowd was still immersed in the atmosphere of the poem, watching the sunset, whether they were aristocrats or commoners, they all felt a sense of the impermanence of life and the constant presence of sorrow. So unintentionally, the crowd forgot Fan Xian's life experiences and the heavy, uncoordinated events in this poem.

  No one suspected that it was written by someone else, after all, this poem could not have been written by anyone other than a great master of poetry. If it were a great master, they would not even be willing to write for the emperor, let alone for a young child from the Fan family.

  "With this poem, even if Master Fan doesn't write another one, it's all right." The Crown Prince of Jing sighed. The scholars by the lake were all silent, knowing that they couldn't come up with a better line no matter what, so the entire poetry gathering fell into silence because of Fan Xian's poem, without realizing that the author had already slipped away.

  —————————————————————————

  Actually, this poem doesn't match the scene or the timing, but Fan Xian was really anxious, so he quickly recited a poem to defeat his enemy. Anxious, on one hand, means being stifled by that little rascal named Guo Baokun, and on the other hand, he was indeed in a hurry, previously bored, drank a bit more wine than usual.

  He came out of the latrine with his pants held up, let out a comfortable sigh, tied his belt, took the towel from the servant's hand and wiped his hands. On the way back, he suddenly saw a patch of seedlings that were very pleasing to the eye, tender green leaves, small flowers, under the tall trees, in the twilight, revealing a hint of vitality.

  Fan Xian turned around and asked the servant, "Can I go for a stroll?" The servant naturally knew that this was the young master of the Fan family, and Miss Fan and Master Si Cheng had always been free to move about in the Wang family's residence, so he wouldn't dare say no. He respectfully replied, "No problem."

  Fan Xian felt a little excited, dismissed the servants and walked into the vegetable garden by himself. He strolled around casually and found that there were no rare flowers or unusual grasses that wealthy families usually liked to plant. Instead, many plants he couldn't even name were planted here. They looked rough and should be wild vegetables or crops.

  He was a bit curious, this King Jing's family was really different from others, and they actually grew so many things.

  Walking casually in the garden, the sky was still quite bright, but the trees above blocked the light, making it seem more quiet and peaceful. The cheerful chirping of birds returning to their nests could be heard from above, and all around were lush green colors, very comfortable. Fan Xian managed to escape that boring poetry gathering, feeling delighted, humming a little tune as he walked deeper in, smiling to himself: "I wonder if I'll run into a fairy sister like Duan Yu did?"

  "Who are you?"

  A person stood up from amidst the plants, looking at Fan Xian with great curiosity.

  ……

  ……

  Fan Xian was startled and thought to himself that with his own hearing ability, he had actually walked so close before discovering the other person. If the other person were an assassin, then he would be done for. Only now did he realize that after entering the capital, his vigilance seemed to have decreased a lot.

  He looked at the person in front of him and smiled wryly to himself.

  The other party was certainly not Wang Yu Yan, nor the white-clothed woman he had been thinking about all along, but a flower farmer in his forties or fifties, holding a hoe in his hand and a mud basket by his feet, with a proper face and a slightly flustered expression in his eyes, seemingly intimidated by Fan Xian's attire.

  Fan Xian smiled slightly and bowed to the flower farmer, saying: "I startled you, sir. I am a guest of the Wang Manor, and I happened to pass by here on my way. Your garden is well-maintained, so I took a stroll."

  The old farmer wiped his hands on his clothes a couple of times, seemingly unsure how to salute, and when he heard the praise for this well-managed garden, he smiled somewhat foolishly.

  The poem ends here, it may not be exciting enough, but if there are too many branches and leaves, there will be suspicion of dragging on and watering down, so that's it for now, of course, the aftereffects will follow later.