The white-browed abbot Stainless, Nameless, and a bevy of other senior monks immediately came out of the black-painted gate to see them off.

It was perhaps too early for Han Shan, who was also a guest in the temple, but then Judge Dee saw the poet monk hurrying over with a silk scroll in his hand.

‘The temple actually has a batch of ready-made blank scrolls for visitors like us. So I’ve just copied out a new poem of mine for you. After our talk about Xuanji’s poetry the day before yesterday, I had a sudden impulse for these lines.’

So Han Shan and Judge Dee unfurled the scroll between themselves, with each holding on to one end of it. On the rice-white paper was a poem written in vigorous brush pen calligraphy. Dee started reading it aloud with those monks standing around, nodding and murmuring in approval.

‘The stars spreading out, far and wide,

present a deeper, sincerer night sky.

Refusing to sink, the moon

hangs on like a solitary light burning

against the steep mountain cliff.

No need for any polishing,

the moon appears so round, bright:

suspending still in the night sky

is my very heart.’

Judge Dee then noticed a line in small characters to the left bottom of the scroll: After talking with Judge Dee about Xuanji’s poems in the temple.

‘Thank you so much, Han Shan. I really appreciate it. What a marvelous Zen poem! The bright moon is your heart, and your heart is the bright moon. No difference between the subject and the object. The last couple of lines that “suspending still in the night sky / is my very heart” speaks volumes about your unwavering spirit.’

‘Well, you’re an unwavering judge, Dee, a man for doing things in the world of red dust,’ Han Shan said, smiling, producing a copy of a time-yellowed booklet out of his ample sleeve. ‘Still, a Buddhist classic like Diamond Sutra may turn out to be helpful to you when you find yourself lost in the confusion between appearance and reality. So here is an old copy handwritten by Xuanzang for you.’

‘Xuanzang, the master who has come back from pilgrimage to the west with all these scriptures! It’s extremely valuable! I cannot thank you enough, Han Shan.’

Judge Dee bid his farewell to Han Shan, the abbot, Nameless, and the other monks standing and waving their hands on the stone steps.

Outside, the new willow shoots appeared green, glistening with the morning rain. The scene reminded Judge Dee again of the melancholy willow poem composed by Xuanji when she first met Wen. In spite of the success of the poem at the time, a critic commented that the sentiment of the poem did not bode well for the future of the young girl. Dee was depressed at the thought of it. Poetry could foretell.