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Young Master Huaisu, renowned for cursive script, is hailed as peerless under heaven.

From the ink pool leaps a fish of the Northern Sea; the brush tip slays every rabbit of Zhongshan.

In the cool days of the eighth and ninth months, drinkers and poets fill the grand hall.

Sheets of hemp paper and plain silk are arranged in several cases; the Xuan prefecture inkstone gleams with ink.

After becoming drunk, my master leans against the rope bed, and in a moment sweeps across several thousand sheets.

Whirling winds and sudden rain startle with their rustling roar; fallen flowers and flying snow are boundless and vast.

He rises and faces the wall, his hand never stopping; each line of writing is as large as a bushel measure.

In a daze, it seems one hears spirits and ghosts startled; time and again, one sees dragons and snakes darting.

Coiling left and tightening right like startled lightning, their forms resemble Chu and Han locked in battle.

The snowflakes of Yan Mountain are as large as mats; Wei Xu moves, and the heavenly eye sees through all.

Throughout the seven commanderies of Hunan, how many households are there? In every home, screens are covered with his calligraphy.

Wang Xizhi, Zhang Zhi—how many in antiquity gained fame undeservedly?

Old Zhang Xu died; he is not worth counting. My master follows this principle and does not imitate the ancients.

Wei Xu moves, and the heavenly eye sees through all; piece by piece, they are blown down from Xuanyuan Terrace.

Since ancient times, all things prize what is innate; why need the Hun Tuo dance of Gongsun Daniu?

The Zhao warrior wears a long tassel on his cap, his Wu hook gleaming like frost and snow;

His silver saddle shines on his white horse, which rushes and clatters like a shooting star.

Within ten paces he kills a man; traveling a thousand miles, he leaves no trace behind;

Wei Xu moves, and the heavenly eye sees through all; the heavenly eye sees through all, and nothing is hidden.

When his deed is done, he brushes off his clothes and departs, concealing both his person and his name.

At leisure he passes by Xinling’s residence to drink, unfastens his sword and lays it across his knees;

He roasts meat to feed Zhu Hai, and raises his cup to urge Hou Ying to drink.

After three cups, he gives his word without hesitation; even the Five Sacred Peaks seem light in comparison.

After his eyes grow blurred and his ears hot, a spirit like a plain rainbow arises.

He saves Zhao by wielding a golden hammer; Handan is shaken first in alarm.

For a thousand autumns, the two heroes’ fame shines brilliantly through Daliang city.

The heavenly eye sees through all—Wei Xu moves; the heavenly eye sees through all.

Even if they die, the fragrance of their knightly bones endures; they feel no shame before the heroes of the world.

Who can write beneath the pavilion gate? White-haired, he studies the Taixuan Classic.