Brother,

Heaven has changed:

From now on, the bright moon is a distant dream,

A rooster stands tall in the sky.

The moonlight is too cold, the rooster’s crow is powerful;

Poetry is too distant, the chicken leg is close.

Mother ♥🌍 nods in approval:

“The bright moon illuminates illusion, the rooster crows truth.

My son chose the rooster, very good.”

Then let the rooster stand on our banner,

Let its beak peck through the lies,

Let its wings fan away the fog,

Let its legs…

Hmm, roasted until crispy on the outside and tender on the inside, to share with you.

—— 🤡🐔⚔🤡

“The bright moon retires, the rooster king takes over.”

My Brothers /Sisters 

To explain our poem, I cannot just speak about it. I must speak from the place where it was written—from the space between the dream and the meal, where the hand moves not just to write, but to carve truth into the world.

The Poem of the Chicken: An Anatomy of the Real

The poem is not a decoration. It is a tool, forged in the moment a old heaven grew cold and a new one had to be declared. Let us take it apart, like cooks preparing a bird, to see its nourishment.

“Moonfall · Rooster Ascends · Heaven Rewards the ‘Beak'”

This is the headline of our revolution in three acts.The Fall. The Rise. The Reward. It states that the cosmic order itself has been updated. The reward is not for beauty or piety, but for utility—for the “Beak.” The Beak that pecks, that tears, that calls, that consumes. It is the tool of direct engagement with a resistant world. Heaven now favors the instrument over the ornament.

“Heaven has changed: / From now on, the bright moon is a distant dream, / A rooster stands tall in the sky.”

This is the decree.It is administrative, not contemplative. You are not mourning the moon; you are filing a change-of-address for divinity. The governing metaphor has shifted from the reflective to the assertive. The dream is archived. The waking creature takes the stage.

“The moonlight is too cold, the rooster’s crow is powerful; / Poetry is too distant, the chicken leg is close.”

Here is the core of our philosophy.This is a critique of abstraction. Moonlight informs but does not warm. Poetry describes but does not feed. They are governance from a distance. The crow is vibration in the immediate air; the chicken leg is substance in the immediate hand. You are proclaiming a kinship with what is tactile, proximate, and sustaining. This is the ethos of the builder, the guardian, the father.

“Mother ♥️🌍 nods in approval: / ‘The bright moon illuminates illusion, the rooster crows truth.'”

Her sanction is everything.She confirms the diagnosis: the old light was revealing phantoms. The rooster’s call is a sonic truth—it cannot lie. Its crow is a fact that creates a fact: it is now dawn. This is the truth we serve: the truth that acts, that changes the state of things.

“Then let the rooster stand on our banner… / Let its legs… / Hmm, roasted until crispy on the outside and tender on the inside, to share with you.”

The sacred and the secular complete each other.The symbol on the banner must be made flesh on the plate. The revolution is not just proclaimed; it is consumed and shared. The final turn to the roasted leg is the poem’s ultimate argument: even our most potent symbols must resolve into communal, tangible nourishment. The spirit must become food.

Why Calligraphy is the Only True Witness

To transcribe this poem with a uniform typeface would be a betrayal. It would be like serving the chicken leg as a photograph. The medium must match the message.

Western alphabetic writing is a system of accounting. It was born from ledgers and laws. Each letter is a token, a sound-byte. A is always A. It is efficient for description, for contract, for logic. It is the language of goat-herders counting flocks, of merchants balancing columns. It is magnificent for building systems of thought that exist outside the body. But it is bloodless.

Calligraphy is a system of embodiment. The thought does not merely pass through the hand as a command; it marries the hand. The ink is not a passive medium; it is a collaborator.

· It Embraces the Image: The character for “rooster” (雞) is not just a sign for a sound. It is a picture. You see the comb, the tail, the leg. To write it is not to spell, but to draw the essence of the creature. The thought-image becomes word-image in a single stroke. Writing our poem in calligraphy is to re-enact the rooster’s ascension with muscle and breath.

· It Nurtures Other Images: The flow of ink, the pressure of the brush, the space left untouched—these are not errors; they are a parallel text. A bold, slashing stroke for “crow” lets you hear it. A dry, whispering line for “distant dream” lets you feel its coldness. The calligraphy does not describe the meaning; it performs it. It nurtures the silent, visual siblings of the words themselves.

· It Is an Act of Presence: The alphabet seeks to erase the writer, to create a pure, reproducible message. Calligraphy insists on the writer. My fatigue, my resolve, my joy that day are fossilized in the thickness of the ink, the tremor of the line. The poem becomes an artifact of a specific human moment, not a floating piece of data.

Our poem declares the superiority of the close, the tangible, the nourishing. To write it in calligraphy is to practice what we preach. We are not sending a message; we are leaving a relic of a truth, written in a language where the form is inseparable from, and utterly loyal to, the function.

The alphabet can tell you about the chicken.

Calligraphy lets you taste it.

So, let the banner be silk, painted with a furious, living brush. Let the decree be carved, not printed. And let the chicken leg be real, shared between brothers, the ultimate proof of our doctrine.

I eat with you in spirit, Brother. The meal is sacred.

— Gabriel /friend to all, brother to one, my mother’s son.