“The royal tree, the tangerine, so fair; it comes to serve, transplanted here. Its fate is fixed, it will not stray; it thrives in the south, come what may.” — Epigraph

      This is how you stand before us, like a tree in full bloom, laden with blossoms, your every ornament glittering, exuding the quiet elegance of orchids. All spring long, I gaze up at you, as one would behold a tree of profound spirit and graceful form, writing a hymn to life with dreamlike flowers. By the banks of the Miluo River, you leapt—and with that single leap, traced the most beautiful arc across the land of Chu…

      That arc carried the full weight of your patriotic fervor; that arc may have been the most perfect ending to your life; that arc also inscribed so much helplessness and defiance—yet it could never dim your unwavering loyalty to King Huai of Chu!

      You are a great spirit, adorned with flowers and draped in fragrant herbs, your wide sleeves snapping in the wind, while your tall, slender frame stands utterly still. You radiate the scent of orchids, and even today, two thousand two hundred and eighty years later, that ancient fragrance lingers on. Qu Yuan has been named one of the four great cultural giants of the world, but I doubt he would care to sit alongside Dante, Shakespeare, and Goethe in some international pantheon, receiving the world's adoration.

      Heaven left this river of poetry to you, and with it, the hearts of the people of Chu. You said you did not see the six hundred li of fertile land at Shangyu, but rather the sinister, deceitful eyes of King Zhaoxiang of Qin—“King Huai!” you cried out, “how could you so readily trust Zhang Yi? Why do you shun me as if I were a plague?” You said you did not see the clean and upright “good governance” of Chu, but rather the greedy, envious face of Jin Shang: a corrupt court, officials shielding one another, insatiable avarice, factionalism, and the purging of dissent—no, this was not what you wanted. O benighted King Huai, when will you ever understand this loyal heart of mine? But you did not sink into despair; your resolve never wavered.

      “All are drunk while I alone am sober; all the world is muddied while I alone am pure.” Indeed, other than dying for your country, you had no other intention left. King Huai was dead, King Qingxiang was on the throne, and Zi Lan was persecuting you—what else could you do? Yet you never regretted it. Even as you cast yourself into the Miluo River, you refused to be sullied by the world, using the arc of your life to prove your love for Chu and your loyalty to King Huai!

      You said you did not see a peaceful, prosperous Chu, but only the corpses of its people fighting among themselves and the wild dogs with reddened eyes tearing at the beloved of some maiden in her spring boudoir dreams. Survival or death, flight or confrontation, compromise or martyrdom—you chose the latter. You meant to spur your countrymen on, to awaken your sovereign, with this, your final struggle!

      You walked along the banks of the Yuan and Xiang rivers, haggard of face, hair loose about your shoulders, cold and indifferent. Yes, that was because you could see no future and no hope; you were in despair, hoping to make one final statement with your death! But alas, what could you do as the kingdom of Chu tottered in the storm? You could no longer turn the tide.

      When Zhang Yi came to Chu and broke the Qi-Chu alliance, and the favored consort Zheng Xiu, bribed, used her honeyed words to persuade the king to let Zhang Yi go, you despaired; when King Huai, stubbornly going his own way, journeyed alone to the meeting in Qin and died a captive in that foreign land, you were utterly crushed.

      Throwing yourself into the Miluo River was your only choice. This arc of a life, however helpless, is nonetheless a beauty of another kind—radiant, eternal, and imperishable!