Thursday, October 9, 2008

B. Rinchin (1905-1977)

The Moon

The mottled yellow moon, the old crone,
Slipped on her deel of perforated clouds and,
Leaning on her walking-stick of white rays,
Drove out her flock of her calves, the stars.
Her little cousin, meanwhile, the wind, whistled his way
Through her ragged deel of clouds.

In the Wilds in Autumn

Tiring the eyes, the wild steppe ripples,
Yellowish and soundless.
Grasshoppers, the world’s voice, keep silent.
In the sky above only the storks are calling.
From the withered, yellow sphere of the sky
Comes a lovely and intriguing scent.
From the foreheads of the stone men in the cemeteries,
The hoarfrost melts into pearls of sweat.

Translated and edited by Tsog Shagdarsuren and Simon Wickham- Smith

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