Elegy of Li Qingzhao - By Rosie Lee

Written By: Rosie Lee

Category: Short Story (Historical Fiction)

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Rosie Lee, writing under the name "Elegy of Li Qingzhao," presents a deeply evocative short story as part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Her work, "Elegy of Li Qingzhao," delves into the rich tapestry of historical fiction, capturing the essence of a bygone era with a focus on love, loss, and the enduring power of words. Through the lens of the legendary poetess Li Qingzhao, Lee artfully weaves a narrative that resonates with the universal themes of memory and identity.

About the Work

In "Elegy of Li Qingzhao," Rosie Lee transports readers to a world where the past lingers in every reflection and shadow. With a graceful narrative style, she explores the inner world of Li Qingzhao, an iconic figure in Chinese literature, as she grapples with love lost and the relentless march of time. The story's rich imagery and emotive prose capture the melancholy beauty of Qingzhao's reflections, emphasizing the enduring impact of her words and legacy.

Elegy of Li Qingzhao

Original Submission by Rosie Lee

Elegy[a] of Li Qingzhao

by Rosie Lee

As the moon took a dip in the crystal clear waters, the elderly woman scooped it into her palms,[b] admiring the sun’s twin with her gentle gaze. She tilted her hands slightly, letting the water return to its home, rippling and breaking apart, only to become one again.

How many nights had she spent like this—chasing ghosts in the reflection and echoes of the past?

The cup of wine beside her had long lost its warmth and was now cold to the touch, but she lifted it anyway, cradling it with cupped hands as if it were something precious. Once, there had been another set of hands, intertwined with hers. Once, there had been another voice reciting verses of poetry and prose, of love and tragedy. Once, there was someone else, under the same moon. Zhao Mingcheng would have laughed at her sentimentality, teasing her with a line of song before pressing a cup into her hands.

Drink, he would have said[c]. Before the moon tires of our company.

She brought the rim to her lips, pausing. The fragrance of aged plum wafted into the brisk night air, mingling with the distant taste of autumn.

Ah, autumn. The orange-tinged leaves and gentle breeze. Days that were once shared but now endured alone. In the lonely winter days, she wore a cloak of grief and sorrow, reminiscing on the nights with companionship.

“Cheers, my love.” She whispered, sipping from the cup tainted with misery.

It was sweet, but tasted like burden. It was sour, but smelled like regret. The wine lapped at her lips, then slid down her chin, dripping onto her white beizi, blackening it with a dark red, a cruel reminder of the time that’d slipped by. In her youth, she would have scolded herself for such clumsiness, but her youth was gone. She was fast approaching her seventies, that year marking a decade and a half since Mingcheng’s death.

With a sigh, she turned away from the moonlit pond and made her way to the low wooden desk in the corner of her room. Light from the crescent sun shone through the thin, plain curtains, illuminating the table. She spread the rice parchment, its edges curling up rebelliously. She reached for the inkstone, setting the brush in the black sludge. Every touch, every flick, every swoosh brought back memories. It was a practiced art, and she was an expert.

Her brush hovered over the paper, a tremble in her fingers. Her hand was unsure, but she let it fall. The strokes came hesitant and slow at first, as though her mind knew of the task, but her heart lagged behind.

I am Li Qingzhao.

She paused, lifting the brush again. The people would not remember her by name, so what was the point of signing it? The men would surely erase her, reduce her to a footnote in their story. In the bleakest moments of her life, she had turned to Zhang Ruzhou, seeking stability. But when his cruelty bared its rotten, yellow teeth—when he stole from her, mistreated her, and shattered what little she had left—she fought back the only way she could. She divorced him. And for that, the world turned against her. They mocked her grief, questioned her choices.

As her quill hovered over the parchment, the voice filled her once more—this time with a fierce clarity that seemed to shake the very air around her. It was no longer mere advice nor the distant murmur of her ancestors’ wisdom. It was something other, something beyond—an ethereal presence pressing in on her mind. Of course, she would listen.

They will try to destroy you, the voice whispered, low and insistent. They will strike your name from records, twist your tale to suit their own. But your words—your words must will endure.

And she would make sure of it.

In the midnight mist where stars once hung,

Laid two connected hands, molded and familiar,

Words woven into melodies of songs,

Echoing softly, now distant, yet clear.

You’re but a dream, a whispered thought,

A memory fading like the morning dew,

Time drips slow in the world’s hourglass,

Yet still I wait, for the moment I return to you.

Where were you, when I awoke alone?

I sit by the lake, yearning for your presence,

Calling out to the constellations above,

When will you come back to me?

Let the sea part and open heaven’s gates,

To get to you, my love, who’s out of my reach,

But your presence is the summer breeze and midnight rain,

A guiding light through this path that awaits.

So I walk through the mist, my heart full of longing,

For the day our souls will meet again,

On the horizon, I see you waiting,

And I know at last, I am coming home.

Qingzhao set down her brush, staring at the way ink crawled over the paper, her words seeping in for all of eternity. Her fingers traced the drying strokes, as if committing them to memory. As if touching them could bring back the man who once completed her verses. She knew that her feeble efforts were all futile, though. But a woman could wish, right?

The candle beside her flickered as a gust of wind threatened to put it out. She exhaled heavily. The universe continued to move on—wars had been fought, the rise and fall of rulers—yet she remained here, writing. Remembering. Her name might fade from history’s mind, but her words would outlive them all. She had inscribed herself into eternity, and most certainly wouldn’t let any man take that from her. Let them talk all they want, but when they are all dead, and their ashes have been sprinkled into the ocean, she will be the one remembered. Not them, her. Qingzhao would take their judgmental gazes and taunting words if it were all worth it. She straightened the parchment, pressing her palm against its surface to keep it from curling. Then, with deliberate care, she reached for another sheet, raising her brush. The ink had not yet fully dried, but there were words to be written.

She swished her brush around on the inkstone. Time to get down to business.

I am Li Qingzhao.[d]

Her childhood was lined with luxury and riches, bookshelves stacked with books that nurtured her love for writing. She started at a young age, rough brushstrokes stabbing into the parchment. When she grew, the words grew with her. Sharp twists evolved into gentle turns. Messy slashes became practiced flourishes.

Qingzhao had been seventeen when her parents first spoke of marriage. As the daughter of Lady Wang and the esteemed Li Gefei, they had high expectations for their daughter’s marriage. Their expectations were crushing, looming, hiding at every corner. Unforgiving. Inescapable. She couldn’t be selfish—marriage was not a matter of love but of duty, a transaction where she was the offering, her future bartered away for alliances and prestige. She had been in her father’s study when the conversation arose, lingering by the bookshelves as she often did, her fingers gliding along the gilded spines of well-worn texts, eyes glazed over as she absorbed the writing. Her gaze had settled on the works of Bi Sheng, the genius behind the movable printing press. A man who had reshaped the written world for centuries to come, the man who’d made words eternal. It was because of him that poetry, prose, and philosophy lived long beyond their creators. It was because of him that her love for books had flourished. She never expected to admire someone she could never meet.

“It’s time, Qingzhao,” Her father said.

“Time?” She repeated, brows furrowed. “Time for what, father?”

“You are of age,” He said to the teenager. “And your mother and I have been looking for suitable husbands for you. We have found a match, too—a good one.”

A match. A husband.

She knew that this moment would come, yet it stained her like an ink blotch on her carefully composed life. A crease on the picture-perfect paper.

“Who?” She asked, feigning indifference. She reached out her cup with a trembling hand, for the maid to pour the steaming green tea. It was better not to let her father feel the displeasure, the anger, the frustration. She was to be grateful for all that was given, whether forced or not.

“Zhao Mingcheng.” Her mother said, watching her carefully. “The son of a minister. He is a polite boy, respects his elders, too.”

“He is a scholar, much like you,” Her father added, as if to persuade her further. Though they both knew that it would do little, Qingzhao never truly had a choice. “A lover of poetries and a collector of antiques. A suitable match.”

Suitable? She wanted to shout. Suitable for you! You try marrying him, if you love him so much.[e]

She was furious but no fool. Just those words could land her in deep trouble. Women had been punished for less. So, Li Qingzhao bit her tongue and nodded, like she always did. And she smiled, like she always did and was expected to do.

“Yes, father. Thank you.” She bowed her head.

Luckily for young Qingzhao, Zhao Mingcheng was indeed a suitable match. Mere months after their meeting, they were married. He was neither the distant, dispassionate stranger nor the aging scholar she’d feared, but a man of wit and warmth—one with a playful nature, one who laughed easily, one who indulged her love for poetry, and one, above all, who saw her not just as a trophy wife but as an equal. Qingzhao couldn’t have ever wished for more.

Qingzhao was no longer a little girl with her face hidden by a book but a woman with a voice that was always meant to be heard, and a mouth willing to speak her mind and make it echo. The days she spent with Mingcheng were the brightest days of her life, days woven with laughter, poetry, and a quiet understanding, coming together to make a beautiful tapestry. But all golden days must fade, and hers were no exception.

She often found herself lost in the labyrinth of memory, wandering through the corridors of their past. It was not the years nor the wealth that made those days golden—it was Mingcheng himself, his presence turning even the dullest moments into a splash of color. And without him, she was colorblind. There was only one way Qingzhao knew to keep him close.

Through ink. Through words. Through the art they had cherished together.

Qingzhao smiled fondly at the poems she’d written, dedicated to Mingcheng. She was young back then, full of life and hopes and wonders. Now, reality had knocked on the door, hand in hand with death.

Beneath the star’s most silver glow,

You outshine them with just your lantern in hand,

For you are my sun that shines the brightest,

We have all the time in the world, so take it slow.

My love, do you recall the lotus lake?

Where ripples danced and along we swayed,

To the sound of nature’s drums,

And the melody of their song.

The wind ran gentle fingers through the weeds,

Carrying our laughter, light as silk,

As you played with the tips of my hairs,

Called my name, so only I could hear.

Under peach blossoms, we stole the spring,

Petals caught in the air, and your hands in mine,

The world is everything, yet all I saw was you,

Ink and moonlight pressed between our palms.

When you read to me, beneath the candlelight,

Your whispered breath and gentle eyes,

Your prancing brush and twirling words,

How could I not fall like autumn leaves?

But autumn is far, and summer still sings,

Stay awhile, the days are aplenty,

Let the fireflies linger, let the wine flow,

For even forever will not be enough.

Their Her forever[f] was cut much too short, though. War struck and left a path of demise behind it. Trailed behind it were corpses of soldiers and the death of dreams[g]. What a cruel place this was. Qingzhao lifted her brush again, but this time, the ink bled differently. It was not the soft pink hues of love nor the delicate strokes of longing—it was war, dark, sharp, and unrelenting. The cries of the fallen, the shouts of babies being torn from mothers, the pleas for a mercy that wasn’t given—they echoed in her ears, not letting her rest, even for a moment. The grief of the land mirrored her own.

Why must so many perish for a cause that they don’t believe in?

She had lost her one man, but war had stolen thousands.

Her hands shook as she wrote, the words spilling not from her marred heart, not the hissing voice inside her head, but her wounded soul.

With a roar that splits mountains wide,

And causes houses to crumble,

The invaders come to take our land,

To push our people aside.

Heaven’s beam shall rain hell,

Drive back our enemies,

Away from our home,

So that our dynasty may never fall.

Yet banners burn like summer leaves,

Ash drifting where gardens once grew,

The rivers run red, and the earth bursts open,

And bow before the cruel man’s shoe.

When I see the snow on the battlefield,

I wonder of the soldiers who are marching home.

Do ghosts still wander those broken hills?

Or does the frost swallow their bones like pills?

I write these words dipped in sorrow,

Ink stained with the fury of gods,

Centered on my brush’s tip,

For I am the writer, and the writer am I.

She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. There was more to write, but not tonight.

Tonight, she set down her brush, letting the ink rest. The candle[h][i] beside her flickered, its flame swaying to the song of the breeze. With a slow exhale, she pushed back her chair, the wooden legs groaning in complaint against the floor. Outside, the wind carried whispers of the night, rustling the paper-thin edges of unfinished pages. But as the shadows deepened, something stirred in the dark corners of the room. She didn’t see it, but she felt it—the air growing heavy, thick with something that could not be tamed nor described. In the farthest reaches of the night, her enemies’ hearts stilled, their lives fading like a forgotten breath. It was vengeance, it was retribution, but only hollow revenge, its sting lost in the quiet of her own silence.

She took one last breath—deep, steady, final. She had loved. She had mourned[j]. She had cried. She was scorned. But after the bitter wine comes the sweet aftertaste. At least it was all over. The ink dried. The candle burned out. And thus concludes the last elegy of Li Qingzhao.

By morning, only her words remained:

I am Li Qingzhao[k][l].[m][n][o][p][q][r][s]

[a]oOOooh fancy word

[b]1 total reaction

Raniya Syed reacted with 💜 at 2025-03-10 9:51 PM UTC

[c]awww noo

[d]1 total reaction

Raniya Syed reacted with 💜 at 2025-03-10 9:56 PM UTC

[e]1 total reaction

Raniya Syed reacted with 😄 at 2025-03-10 9:58 PM UTC

[f]1 total reaction

Raniya Syed reacted with 💜 at 2025-03-10 10:01 PM UTC

[g]lovely

[h]love how the candle is back

[i]MOTIF!!!

[j]1 total reaction

Raniya Syed reacted with 💜 at 2025-03-10 10:03 PM UTC

[k]ROSIE THIS IS SO GOODD I LOVE HOW THE CANDLE COMES BACK, THE WINE, AND THE "I AM LI QINGZHAO" IS SO GOODDDD

[l]THANK U BESTIE I APPRECIATE U

[m]1 total reaction

Raniya Syed reacted with 👏🏽 at 2025-03-10 10:04 PM UTC

[n]ROSIE THIS WHOLE THING IS SO GOOD AND SO WELL WRITTEN!!! also i'm not sure but if you used any parts of poems she wrote i would have like a footnote or smth saying like "from poem _._ by Li Qingzhao"

[o]OMG CORINNE YAYYY THANK U

[p]also i wrote the poems myself :)

[q]Niceeeeee

[r]MMMMMMMMMMM THIS IS SO POWER SO BADDIE GIRL BOSS

[s]??? thanks???

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, hosted by Hashtag Kalakar, is a celebration of literary talent from around the world. This prestigious event provides a platform for writers to share their unique voices and stories, fostering a global community of creativity and expression. Participants explore diverse themes and styles, contributing to the rich tapestry of contemporary literature.

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to Rosie Lee for her thoughtful contribution, "Elegy of Li Qingzhao," to the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Her work beautifully encapsulates the spirit of historical fiction, inviting readers to reflect on the powerful connection between memory and identity. Thank you, Rosie, for sharing your unique voice with us.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.