In the Camp of the Sketching Brush

Monkeys and birds are still alert for your orders
And winds and clouds eager to shield your fortress.
. . . You were master of the brush, and a sagacious general,
But your Emperor, defeated, rode the prison-cart.
You were abler than even the greatest Chou statesmen,
Yet less fortunate than the two Shu generals who were killed in action.
And, though at your birth-place a temple has been built to you,
You never finished singing your Song of the Holy Mountain.