Uncle Yu—a once famous martial artist who taught thousands of students—now bides his time at a hilltop temple in Sichuan， writing poems by the kilo.

余伯，一位曾教导过数千名徒弟的著名武师，如今蛰居四川一座山寺，静待时光流逝，作诗不辍。

Wu De Temple， Sichuan Province， China——

中国四川五德寺——

A Thousand mountains will greet my departing friend，

When the spring teas blossom again.

With such breadth and wisdom，

Serenely picking tea—

Through morning mists

Or crimson evening clouds—

His solitary journey is my envy ...

—— “The Day I Saw Lu Yu off to Pick Tea，” by Huangfu Zeng， eighth century

千峰待逋客，

香茗复丛生。

采摘知深处，

烟霞羡独行。

……

——《送陆鸿渐山人采茶回》，皇甫曾，公元八世纪

We slogged1 up the steep hill. My friend Yang Wendou carried the broadsword.

我们艰难地爬上陡峭的山坡。我的朋友杨文斗扛着那把莲花刀。

The hill was corduroyed2 in green hedgerows of Camilla sinesis3， the tree first domesticated to please the palates of tea drinkers some 3，000 years ago. The sword belonged to Yu Chengzhang. Uncle Yu was a martial artist and poet who wrote poems by the kilo.

山坡上绿意盎然，纵横排布着茶树树篱。大约三千年前人们开始种植这种树，以满足饮茶者的味蕾。莲花刀的主人叫余成章——余伯是武术家兼诗人，作诗不辍。

“I write several poems when I awake，” he said at the hilltop temple. “I do this every day.”

“睡醒了，我总要写几首诗，”他在山顶寺庙里说，“每天如此。”

The temple’s name was Wu De. Uncle Yu composed his stanzas there with a cheap pen on sheets of plain white paper. He stacked these papers in a dim hermit’s quarters. Altogether his poetry weighed， by his estimate， about a quarter of a ton.

寺庙名为五德。余伯用普通钢笔在白纸上作诗，稿纸堆在一间昏暗小屋的角落。据他估算，这些诗作加一起，大概得有五百斤重。

“You appeared my dreams，” Uncle Yu told me the next morning. “You were meeting an 80-year-old woman. So I wrote a poem about it.”

“我梦到你了，”次日清晨余伯跟我说，“梦中你遇到一位八十老妇。于是我为此写了首诗。”

He read the poem out loud. It was done in classical style， in four-line stanzas with five to seven syllables. It told of clouds blowing about in the south and women pickers bent in the tea gardens singing. I couldn’t follow it， to be honest. Then he changed into a yellow Kung Fu suit and gave a martial arts demonstration.

他朗诵起那首诗。诗是按古诗词格律写的，四行一节，每行五字到七字。该诗吟咏了南边的流云和茶园里且歌且采的采茶女。说实话，我没听懂。随后他换上黄色练功服，给我表演了武术。

What can I say about how Uncle Yu moved？

该如何形容余伯的身手？

He was a man in his 70s. Once， he’d been very famous. He was the best Kung Fu master in Ya’an， the nearby city in western Sichuan， where he’d taught thousands of students. By the 20th movement， he was sweating. By the 30th， I could hear him wheeze. But the clouds still moved about in him. So did some faint echo of a song， rising and falling as his slippered feet scuffed across the clay of the temple courtyard. Watching him stirred the sorts of feelings you might get holding a river-smoothed cobble. That weight of long vanished power. Of repetition distilled into stillness.

这位七十多岁的老人曾名震一方。