"Shuashuashuashua!" Countless gazes shot at Fan Xian. He smiled shyly and cupped his hands. He didn't put on a flower scarf to pretend to be an artist. After all, he was Fan Xian, not Fan Wei.
Seeing his appearance, the prince almost laughed. He would not believe what the Miss Fan family said. A ten-year-old boy might really be able to write good poems, but such a carefully crafted entry poem , probably not able to write, he guessed that Fan Xian wrote it last night, and let Fan Ruoruo take it out on purpose today, so it was amazing at the poetry meeting.
He didn't dislike these things, on the contrary, he found it a little interesting that someone like Fan Xian, who seemed very free and easy, would actually write this kind of poem. Fan Xian didn't know what Prince Jing was thinking. He only knew that this poem about Zhang Jiuling's flattery by Meng Haoran in his previous life was a little bit higher than the level of these people in the field, so he was very satisfied, at least this satisfaction I got my father's explanation.
Guo Baokun looked at the eyes of everyone in the field and was furious. He never thought that this "embroidered pillow" would have such a life-saving poem. He refused to let it go, and said with a sneer, "I don't know what else is better for Brother Fan? After all This is your masterpiece when you were ten years old."
The meaning in the words clearly does not believe that this poem was written by himself.
Fan Xian sighed inwardly, thinking why do people always like to force himself to do these things? Speaking of poetry and lyrics, in this world, who else is my opponent? After all, I am a monster possessed by the three gods Li, Du and Su, and blessed with five thousand years of poetic power. He smiled and replied, "I have never done propositional composition."
Guo Baokun saw that he looked confident, gritted his teeth and said, "Brother Fan, please be the leader at will, so that all the talents in Kyoto can also see and see."
Fan Xian frowned, gave this annoying guy a cold look, then dropped a poem, got up and left the garden, and went to the toilet under the leadership of the servants of the palace.
As soon as this poem comes out, there is a sound of throwing the ground, and the whole garden is shocked, and the flowers and water are falling, sweeping away thousands of troops.
After a burst of applause, everyone savored the taste, Guo Baokun's face was also blue and white, and he didn't know what to say. At this time, the son no longer cared about how to hold the fan in his hand so as not to be judged by Fan Xian's character, he closed the fan with a snap, and recited:
"The wind is rushing, the sky is high, the ape is mourning, the sand is clear and the white birds are flying back. The boundless fallen trees are rustling, and the endless rivers are rolling in. Thousands of sad autumns are often guests, and a hundred-year-old illness is alone on the stage. Hardship and bitterness hate the frosty temples, and the desolation is new. Dirty wine glass."
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"Sorrow, clarity, boundless, endless, thousands of miles, autumn, guest, a hundred years, illness, loneliness, and eternal sorrow, all in a glass of dirty wine! Good poetry, good poetry!" In fact, the depressed father, for some reason, felt sour in his heart, sighed again and again, shook his head for a long time and was speechless.
It was only after a long time that he came to his senses. You, Fan Xian, are young and although you have a miserable life experience, how can you say that your snow temples are sick? This is really inexplicable, it doesn't make sense at all. But everyone is still immersed in the atmosphere of the poems, watching the sunset, no matter the rich or the poor, they all have a little sense of life's impermanence and sadness. So everyone unintentionally completely forgot that Fan Xian's life experience had nothing to do with the heaviness in this poem.
No one doubted that it was written by someone else. After all, this poem cannot be written by anyone who is not a generation of poets. If it is a generation of masters, they would not write it for the emperor, let alone a child of the Fan family.
"With this poem, it doesn't matter if Mr. Fan doesn't write any more poems in the future." Prince Jing sighed. The talented scholars by the lake were all silent, knowing that they would never be able to come up with any better sentences today, so the entire poetry meeting fell into silence because of Fan Xian's poem, but they didn't realize that the author had slipped away long ago up.
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In fact, this poem was not suitable for the scene or the time, but Fan Xian was really in a hurry, so he quickly recited a poem and finished attacking the enemy. He was in a hurry, on the one hand, he was being held back by that little bastard named Guo Baokun, on the other hand, he was really in a hurry, because he was bored before and drank a little too much.
Coming out of the latrine with his trousers in hand, he sighed very comfortably, fastened his trouser belt, took the towel from the servant, and wiped his hands. On the way back, he suddenly saw a nursery growing very gratifyingly, with tender green leaves and broken flowers, under the tall trees, in the twilight, there was a burst of vitality.
Fan Xian turned around and asked the servant if he could go for a stroll. Of course the servants knew that this was the uncle of the Fan family, and the Miss Fan family and Master Sizhe had always walked around the palace at will, so naturally they would not say no, and replied respectfully, there is no problem.
Fan Xian was a little happy, sent the servants away, walked into the nursery by himself, looked at it casually, and found that there were no exotic flowers and plants that ordinary rich people like in this garden, but many plants that he could not call out. The plants with the name look very rough, and they should be some wild vegetables or crops.
He was a little curious, this Prince Jing's house was really different, to grow such things.
Walking casually in the garden, the sky is actually very bright, but there are trees above the head, so it looks relatively quiet. You can hear the cheerful chirping of the birds above your head when they return to their nests. The surrounding is full of green colors, which is very comfortable. Fan Xian was able to get rid of that very boring poetry meeting, feeling very happy, humming a little song and walking deep, thinking with a smile as he walked, "It won't be like Duan Yu, meeting a fairy sister, right?"
"Who are you?"
A man stood up from the bushes and looked at Fan Xian curiously.
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Fan Xian was startled, thinking that with his hearing ability, he had come so close to find the other party. If the other party was a killer, then he must be doomed. Only then did he realize that after entering Beijing, his vigilance seemed to have decreased a lot.
He looked at the man in front of him and laughed at himself.
Of course, the other party could not be Wang Yuyan, nor could it be the woman in white that I had been obsessed with, but a flower farmer in her 40s or 50s, with a hoe in her hand and a mud basket at her feet, with a square face and a slight expression in her eyes. There was panic, presumably it was because of Fan Xian's attire, he was a little in awe.
Fan Xian smiled slightly, bowed his hands to the flower farmer and said, "The old man was shocked. I am a guest of the palace. I came here by the way. I saw that the garden is well-kept, so I took a stroll."
The old flower farmer wiped his hands on his clothes twice, as if he didn't know how to salute, when he heard him praise the garden for its well-kept condition, he laughed a little honestly.