Wang Jibing, known as the "takeaway poet", rides a moped through the streets of Kunshan, Jiangsu province, to deliver a meal.

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On July 21, at the symposium for laureates of the ninth Lu Xun Literary Prize, Wang Jibing choked up several times. "No matter what, I have always been a quietly flowing river," said the 56-year-old, who is a takeaway rider in Kunshan, Jiangsu province. "I will answer the years with one piece after another."

Wang is widely known as the "takeaway poet". Born in Pizhou, Jiangsu, he left school early and worked as a builder in Shenyang, Liaoning province, a scrap collector and a street vendor. He currently runs a small convenience store with his wife. In 2018, then nearly 50, he registered as a food-delivery rider.

He once wrote: "For those racing against the clock, there are no seasons — only this stop, and the next." The lines are from his viral 2022 poem A Man in a Hurry.

Since seriously turning his hand to poetry in 2009, Wang has composed more than 6,000 poems. On delivery runs, he jots lines on order receipts, cigarette boxes or his own sleeve, then types them into a computer at night. "If I can't write a poem in a day, I can't sleep," he said. "The next day I go out delivering like crazy."

One time, after winning a cash prize of 8,000 yuan ($1,190) in Haikou, Hainan province, Wang walked 26 kilometers from his hotel to the airport, documenting the scenery along the way. "The money came too easily; I needed to push myself the hard way," he said. He keeps spare raincoats and a rope in his delivery box. "After being pulled up from a well, I have a duty to reach down for others," he said.

He has turned down commercial offers that clashed with his principles. For example, a car commercial because he has no driver's license. Also, a dairy advertisement. "I don't even drink milk," he said. His rule is simple: "I write on blank paper for people to read. If there is a stain, the paper turns black and I cannot write on it anymore."

"You must build an inner moral compass. Once your values are shaken, life will collapse." Wang said he read those words in a work of literature and they have guided his every choice since.

The Lu Xun prize has upended his schedule. In August, he spent more than 20 days traveling through five cities. Yet back in Kunshan, he wakes at 5:30 every morning, tends to the shop, writes and still slips out at lunchtime for delivery runs.

"I remain that same river," he said. "Throw me off a cliff and I become a waterfall. Throw rocks in my path and I become waves." In Low Flight, he gives voice to fellow riders: "Who says that spreading wings means flying high? Flying low is still flying."

Wang, who dropped out after the second year of junior high, once compared delivery riders to migratory birds and sparrows; constantly on the move, yet calling the city home. "A professor said food couriers are a safety-net job for the city. I couldn't agree more, as long as we are willing to run, the city will give us its roads," he said.

Recalling a fall from a footbridge during a delivery, when passersby rushed to help, he reflected: "Don't think of yourself as just passing through. Every move you make might leave someone with a lifelong impression of an entire city."

To him, ordinary people on the run are like blades of grass on a prairie; individual blades that together form the vast landscape of an era.

"When we love life and love the city, we'll find that life is truly beautiful," Wang said. "As a writer, I have always believed in literature, and I believe that those who walk toward the light leave their shadows behind. That is what city life has taught me."