Chang'an's glow once illuminated the Silk Road, its poetry crystallizing the Tang dynasty's golden age in every brushstroke. The moonlit verses of Li Bai still ripple in scholars' wine cups, while palace dances survive as ink traces on moth-eaten silk.
These echoes persist-not in the phoenix-painted lanterns nor jade hairpins' chime but in the human pulse beneath dynastic dust. Each generation rebuilds Chang'an: Song scholars layered it with philosophical chrysanthemums, and Ming architects crowned it with crimson gates, yet the original melody lingers like a half-remembered tune.
We who parse these fragments-are we restorers of glory, or mere scribes chronicling our displacement? Perhaps to comprehend this longing, one must taste plum wine where nightingales sing Tang quatrains or feel autumn wind slip through a ruined moon gate, carrying Du Fu's sigh across eight centuries.
