Blue Sky, Clear Water

I have two gardens. One is shaped like the outstretched wings of an eagle; the other like the hooves of a horse galloping beside a lake. I named them Thiên Ưng Phủ and Thiên Mã Viên—not merely because of the shape of the land, but because I believe land, too, has spirit and energy, its own manner of flight and its own path of running.

Since the day I came to own those two gardens, I have not only asked people to tend the trees and grass. I have also tended a dream: a dream of blue sky, of water glittering with the reflection of evening clouds, of wings rising high as though they had never known fatigue, of footsteps that never stop as they move toward somewhere farther away, somewhere more beautiful.

The poem “Blue Sky, Clear Water” was born on an afternoon like that. I was standing at the boundary between the two pieces of land, listening to the wind skim the lake, watching the shadow of a bird in flight and imagining the sound of hooves across the grass. The first line came as lightly as the wind: The heavenly eagle spreads its wings across the lake. In my eyes at that moment, the eagle was no longer simply a bird. It became a symbol of freedom, aspiration and intelligence moving through open sky—unbound, unafraid. Its wings did more than cut the wind; they opened a vast inner space for the person standing below and watching. I saw myself in that flight: always longing to reach farther, always turning toward the light, always wanting to touch something higher.

Then the second line sounded like an ancient drumbeat: The heavenly horse strikes its hooves along the shore of dreams. That “Thiên Mã”—the celestial horse—does not simply run across the earth. It runs along a dream shore, where reality and illusion mingle, where the heart places what has not yet come true and what is still approaching. In my imagination, Thiên Mã raises no dust. It runs on aspiration, nameless faith, and the desire to escape every constraint. Each beat of its hooves sends a new wave of pride through the landowner in me, because I know that this piece of earth is no ordinary place.

But once strength, height and freedom have had their say, the poem grows quiet, like a lake after the wind has passed. The third line—The sky is still, clouds drift mirrored in blue-green waves—is a perfect image of serenity. Everything moves without disturbing anything: an absolute harmony between sky and water, motion and stillness, drifting cloud and rippling lake. At that moment the lake becomes a mirror, reflecting not only nature but also the soul of the person who looks into it. Standing there between Thiên Ưng and Thiên Mã, I can no longer tell sky from water, dream from reality. Everything dissolves into everything else, drifting like cloud, light as wind, deep as wave.

And then comes the line I love most: Soft grass leans into the shadow of a poetic evening. It is an image of extraordinary gentleness. Amid all the strength—the wings, the hooves, the sky and clouds—there suddenly appears a patch of soft grass. Grass does not need to grow tall, does not need to fly or gallop. It needs only to... lean. A single inclination is enough to receive an entire afternoon filled with poetry. I feel my own shadow leaning with the grass. And I understand: sometimes we do not need to rise higher or run faster. It is enough to know how to receive the poetry that is arriving. That alone can be a full life.

The poem is a painting, but not one meant only to be looked at. It is a way of being. To live like Thiên Ưng—unafraid of height. To live like Thiên Mã—unafraid of distance. And also to live like soft grass—not resisting the wind, but bending to receive the gentlest possible afternoon. As the owner of those two gardens, I am proud not only because the land is beautiful or the scenery moving, but because this place has given me the inspiration to live beautifully, deeply, poetically—even in a life that is not always poetry.

“You may call me a gardener, a birdwatcher, a dreamer or someone who writes words. But above all, I am simply a person living between two sacred images: a bird flying toward the sun, and the beat of a horse’s hooves running toward a dim moon.”

And I know that each time I reread that poem, I am not merely reading a few lines of verse. I am reliving a part of my own soul—quietly and with gratitude.