Han-Shan remembers going to school
At the capital with so many other
Shans, the master called the roll
By first announcing the category
And then bawling out numbers as if
He taught accounting. On the roster
Han’s name was Number Seven: a digit
He still hates because its head
Is always bowed, and he despises
Humility almost as much as he
Despises arithmetic. How dreadful
To have his poem attributed to Seven,
As if he were no more than a cipher!
How could such a number ever further
His career? Even now, here on Exile
Mountain, he can’t escape public
Opprobrium. In his dreams
The master still bawls his number,
And Han wakes shuddering, seeming
No more than another nought in
His already threadbare coat.
Early Schooling
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