Gombojavyn MEND-OOYO

I AM COMING TO YOU


Traveling through and time , in company with the sun the moon,
Along the bumpy and winding roads left by old wise men,
Climbing up and down the high mountains and the hills,
Fording hundreds of rivers,
Although I do not know when we may meet ,
I am thinking about the words that I will say to you.

I am coming to you
My roads are open to icy winds and fire.
Although the mist of slander falls on them,
I free my transparent thoughts from any mark ,
Untying all knots with my love .
Lashed by freezing winds ,
I’m keeping onwards in my chosen direction,

I am coming to you
Carrying together autumn’s grief and spring’s renewal,
Grasping the fire of my age and with the sun’s warmth in my hand,
Growing with the growing leaves and withering with them ,
In a garden full of flowers and fruits ,
I pass by a hand offering the glass of enjoyment ,
Driven by my desire,

I am coming to you
All my gentle thoughts of my journey ,
All the sweet moment of my life,
And all my secrets, everywhere,
I bind together in the house of my spirit.
In time without beginning or end,
In space without limit,

I am coming to you
Having only parts of my dreams,
Tasting in my own poetry the very basis of everything that is mine,
Wishing in your heart to tune the strings of inspiration ,
Climbing the chasms of high mountains,
Following impassable paths ,
Seeking the eternal song of the essence of love ,

I am coming to you


Translated by N.Enhkbayar

Paradise and Swallows

A mirage on the blue steppe, like a heavenly city.
My ancestors are forever and only in paradise, and
Only the swallows, hanging above the lonely steppe,
Welcome me into my father’s land.
A thick blue mist is draped over the sky, and
The swallows alone lead the way with flapping wings.

THE CRANES


Excitedly, the black-faced cranes
Come flapping their wings every spring and,
Blue beards fluttering,
Land at will.
It’s not true what they say, that
These wandering birds have no home.
They travel their destiny,
Returning to their birthplace,
Cranes paired together
Over the spacious steppe,
Exhausted from the long flight
Back to their regular haunt.
And, year after year,
The locals become used to these birds.
Near to a farm,
They lay two spotted eggs.
Who could know that
This untrodden place
Hid eggs –
You’d never think it..
When they came to the gentle steppe,
It was to a place without evil.
When they laid their eggs on the bare gravel,
They gave not a thought to misfortune,
They got dirty, protecting
Their unsuckled birds inside the eggs.
An inquisitive fellow, they say,
With not a thought,
Trod local wisdom underfoot.
And subversively pocketed the eggs,
Getting home
Without arousing suspicion.
The two poor cranes
Stepped into pools of rain-water,
Hid their feathers as if they had no wings,
And there spent the summer, without their young.
When the autumn wind ruffled their plumage,
They came near to the farmer who had taken their eggs.
Nobody noticed their grief,
As the horses were trotted out.
Some way away, the farmer’s son, his eyes sparkling -
He had bells on his shoes and a short jacket on -
Ran playfully after the cranes.
The adults weren’t watching him.
The cranes homed in on the happy child,
Running in from behind,
Closer and closer and closer,
Distance out of mind,
And his mother’s breasts ached with pain.
Three times she called her child.
They searched across the wide steppe,
And combed between the blades of grass.
He must have sprouted wings and flown away.
They didn’t find even one of his boots.
As the days are borne forth by the world,
Unravelling us into the kisses of old age,
When will this scrap of a boy be found, he
Who never knew the eggs were stolen?
The cranes’ melancholy song
Is tethered above the ger.
Is it a shadow or a tear?
The milk in the pan has turned.

THE WHEEL OF TIME

The time goes flying, flying by,
The time is gone, is gone.

Quite unexpectedly, the time flies rushing by.
Earth mother swells, the ridges of her brown steppes frail.
Roots of grass suck in the rain, grow saturated.
A flock of birds threads through clouds,
And hills and mountains pass through a vision of horses,
And angry breath is obstinate.
A thread of golden sunlight pierces the flowers on the southern slopes.
Inconstant as time is, the time flies by and is gone.

The moon peeps out from behind a veil of clouds,
And time bashfully steals through the stagnant water.
Youth steps from the army into manhood.
A trotting arrow, cream white steeds, the time goes flying, flying by.
Nighttime lilies caress white beams of light.
A voice's beautiful melody betrays no anger.
A loving couple feasts upon the depths of their life.
The neighbors send out wedding invitations, the time flies by and is gone.

A solitary man in a green haze, sleeping,
Flings stones into the wind.
Why do men's hearts beat in this world?
We're working through this riddle, and the time goes flying, flying by.
They laugh and string their beads.
Their eyes, their skilful golden words, have no time to rest.
They make friends with scholars who traverse the centuries and,
Across the ages still to come, the time flies by and is gone.

The time goes flying, flying by,
The time is gone, is gone.

Quite unexpectedly, the time flies rushing by.
The smell of horses hangs upon a pale blue mist,
And butterflies chase their brawn through flower's honey,
And swans and cranes dance out their native rituals.
Fruit multiplies like stars over the far away mountains.
White horses take a roll and rise up red.
Good fortune spreads, insatiate, through our homeland.
And happiness is infinite, the time flies by and is gone.

Children knock together pebbles to make percussion.
A clash of steel pans, and the seasons fall silent.
We listen to our dear bodies, resonating to a thousand years of song.
The tune of Earthmother's stones, the time goes flying, flying by.
Along the roseate ridges of the still mountains of evening,
The swallows fly up with wings of flame.
Weaving ancient stories to kindle joy and good fortune,
We're thinking like the older generation, the time flies by and is gone.

Ancient heroes gallop through my story.
Old and young smile upon the shining screen.
Face faces face when self meets self,
The Vajradhara is reflected in the present, and the time goes flying, flying by.
The heart beats out the peace of the world, and
We check the hidden nature in the movement of the stars.
Mindful of the map of stations which spans the infinite cosmos,
We hurry towards the future time, the time flies by and is gone.

The time goes flying, flying by,
The time is gone, is gone.

Quite unexpectedly, the time flies rushing by.
While the stars are dozing, the white hoarfrost falls.
The highest price is caught, shimmering at the end of a telescope.
Crops are sown in rows and swell in the sunshine.
Two fledglings flap away the summer on the edge of the dry saltmarsh.
A siege of cranes circles the dried up saltmarsh.
Alongside the returning birds, swirling in the sky,
Raising the misty blue curtain, the time flies by and is gone.

The larks sing, praising the morning's rays.
In waters of desire, floating unprotected from the sun,
We sense the rhythm of original mind.
The heart's reply grows stronger, the time goes flying, flying by.
The birds call gently, summoning their young.
They leave the frozen mandala in swirling flocks.
We sadly take to heart how, in the revolving world,
Our mother's getting old - the time flies by and is gone.

The story of the passing world lies,
Hidden beneath the wings of years; the years leap high,
And a single finger piles the earth over the old as they sleep.
Frost builds up on the tips of grasses, the time goes flying, flying by.
Thick stacks of corpses watch the time go round.
Ancient grasses ripple, untrodden.
We take refuge in unbridled joy, we
Grab onto life, the time flies by and is gone.

The time goes flying, flying by,
The time is gone, is gone.

Quite unexpectedly, the time flies, rushing by.
The sun's eyelids freeze in the endless mandala.
The piercing cold is tamed beneath the best fur hats.
The birds fly off, abandoning the skies.
The sun's rays burnish the silver steppes.
Frozen lanterns, glistening in the camp,
Sway with Orion, hanging in the high heavens,
Earth's satellites flash and fade away, the time flies by and is gone.

The heat from the winter campsite rises up and freezes in the clear sky.
The turning tentpole shows the hand of night.
Around the children, covered by mother's deel, listening to stories
Of "Once upon a time", the time goes flying, flying by.
The horses whinny, echoing their bodies between the hills and mountains.
Sound flows, absorbed into snowflakes, and
The spine of the world relaxes in the four directions.
And, "Happily ever after", the time flies by and is gone.

The moon's rays ask the way of sunlight,
Customs are assumed, then age and wither away.
The world's at peace because of what you've got, and
As you follow your dreams, the time goes flying, flying by.
You take the life you're given and the sands keep running through,
A constant round of joys and destinies and gifts.
Throughout a hundred aeons, bearing witness now
To honest labor and compassion, the time flies by and is gone.

The time goes flying, flying by,
The time is gone, is gone.

Danzangyn Nyamsüren

THE FOUR SEASONS

1

Just one drop of rain is lovely.
The dampness of old grass is lovely.
Spring snow falling on a ger is lovely.
Birds singing here and there is lovely.

The swallows flying overhead are lovely.
The travellers sitting at our hitching-post are lovely.
The women nextdoor are lovely.
To move from pasture to pasture is lovely.

Sudden rainfall on the Khangai is lovely.
The flash of lightning in the dark is lovely.
Teeming rainfall day and night is lovely.
Guests coming from afar are lovely.

Grasses rippling on the yellow steppe are lovely.
Winds riffling at the women’s fringes are lovely.
Sleeping on a haystack on a moonlit night is lovely.
When I’m dreaming, to fall down to earth is lovely.

When the rain takes a breather, it’s lovely.
Water dripping from sopping clothes is lovely.
The sun emerging from a break in the clouds is lovely.
Watching through the door as the larks fly past is lovely.

Horses whinnying at midnight are lovely.
To think of the world awakening in verse is lovely.
Light breaking through the house is lovely.
The morning is lovely.

The meeting and melding of rain is lovely.
The galloping man on the dun-colored horse is lovely.
Saying how we came before the rain is lovely.
Coming in with the bridle and saddle is lovely.

Camels rumbling over the moonlit hills are lovely.
Ai-nan-aa on the strings of the shanz is lovely.
The fire catching light with yellow flames is lovely.
Faces caught in the flickering are lovely.

The call of a crane’s head bottle is lovely.
The rain, falling on salty marshland, is lovely.
A flower’s subtle sign of life is lovely.
The calm before the storm is lovely.

The moon shining through the roofhole is lovely.
Splashing milk in a pot is lovely.
The moon coming out in the depth of night is lovely.
The snorting of a hobbled horse is lovely.

The drizzling of rain is lovely.
The greening of the grassy lawns is lovely.
A southeasterly rainbow is lovely.
The sheen of rainsoaked colors is lovely.

The glint of rainwater is lovely.
Girls washing their pigtails is lovely.
The wafting scent of onion and artemisia is lovely.
To think good thoughts of far and near is lovely.

To come in at dusk is lovely.
To go in the light of dawn is lovely.
To cry soft tears for the motley world is lovely.
To sing joyfully for the broad earth is lovely.

My homeland, like poetry, is lovely.
My country, like song, is lovely.
To experience the turning seasons is lovely.
Rain falling on Ereentsev is lovely!


2

Fallen snow at daybreak is lovely.
Snow falling down the ropes and through the roofhole is lovely.
The mountains and hills shining outside are lovely.
Just one blade of grass blowing in the wind is lovely.

To see a light at home late in the evening is lovely.
The feet of a birthing foal are lovely.
When you spend the night at home, women are lovely.
Stray dogs barking in the moonlight are lovely.

Snow in flurries around the roofhole is lovely.
When it melts in droplets onto the pot’s lid, it’s lovely.
Father sitting in the place of honor is lovely.
Mother coming in through the tentflap is lovely.

The sun striking the low mountain peaks is lovely.
A cart coming this way is lovely.
The wheels on the cart going round and round is lovely.
The birds flying from inside the cart are lovely.

Dull and misty skies are lovely.
Something barely seen in the distance is lovely.
Smoke whirling on the twisting wind is lovely.
Snow falling in heavy bursts is lovely.

To be warmed asleep by the fire in the hearth is lovely.
Dozing off while drunk on a summer evening is lovely.
Who, what..? Any tea? Such woozy words are lovely.
Being led gently by the hand by someone’s elder sister is lovely.

A wide salty plain, striated in greys, is lovely.
A flash upon the distant mountains is lovely.
A dazzling light on liquid snow is lovely.
A day of white and glinting light is lovely.

Closer to the moon, the clearer stars are lovely.
Like my horse upon the steppes of Ongon they are lovely.
Orion, predictor of the future, is lovely.
Like a steed racing through the planets, it is lovely.

The turning of time is lovely.
A country drifted by heavy snows is lovely.
To think that you and me and everyone is cute is lovely.
The ticking of the clock at home is lovely.

To stand outside under a full moon is lovely.
The shapes beneath a cart are lovely.
The pale shadows in depressions are lovely.
To be scared of going over there is lovely.

The whistling of a squall outside is lovely.
Something or XXX moving idly about, is lovely.
Being plunged quite suddenly into darkness is lovely.
Snow packed up at the edge of the ger is lovely.

People coming out of their gers is lovely.
Birds flying in a clear sky is lovely.
To run towards the mountains and the steppe is lovely.
The play of red-cheeked children is lovely.

To come in at dusk is lovely.
To go in the light of dawn is lovely.
To cry soft tears for the motley world is lovely.
To sing joyfully for the broad earth is lovely.

My homeland, like poetry, is lovely.
My country, like song, is lovely.
To experience the turning seasons is lovely.
Rain falling on Ereentsev is lovely!


3

Thawing snow, melting, is lovely.
The time to come is lovely.
Waiting for you is lovely.
To watch the clock is lovely.

The return of birds is lovely.
When they land upon rocks it is lovely.
A person walking along a path is lovely.
When I sit upon a cliff it is lovely.

A woman from nextdoor going for water is lovely.
Watching nearby springs through a telescope is lovely.
The glimmer of a bluegrey mirage is lovely.
The bluegrey deel which fits you well is lovely.

The haziness over the hills is lovely.
The breezing of silken winds is lovely.
The rising of bluegreen mists is lovely.
To sit amidst the swirling fog is lovely.

The flight of sleep on a peaceful night is lovely.
The sounding of a distant noise is lovely.
A vague ringing in the distance is lovely.
A world of lullabies is lovely.

When someone comes along, it is lovely.
If they ask me Do you have a light? it is lovely.
To think you’ll encourage the world and others is lovely.
The loving of all and the flowing of rivers are lovely.

The breaking of ice and the flowing of rivers are lovely.
To think that, falling in, you’d also flow along, is lovely.
Alone on the riverbank, the morning is lovely.
With you on the earth by the river, the evening is lovely.

The magpie chattering away in the courtyard is lovely.
Like fate, when someone comes from the khaan, it is lovely.
When relations come from all around it is lovely.
When close friends come from nearby, it is lovely.

The greyblue outline of our homeland is lovely.
The glint of tears in our eyes is lovely.
To gallop along, standing in the stirrups, and whistling is lovely.
Birds flying over the fourhoof-covered ground are lovely.

To get up early on a spring morning is lovely.
To bridle up a horse and ride is lovely.
The smell of fresh snow is gentle.
To suck the moisture from snow is lovely.

To live in the country year upon year is lovely.
To live like the stars, in a simple dark room is lovely.
To ride upon the revolving cosmos overhead is lovely.
Snow melting down onto still glowing cigarettes is lovely.

The blossoming of plants and flowers is lovely.
The withering of telephone poles is lovely.
The coming of the years is lovely.
The going of the years is lovely.

To come in at dusk is lovely.
To go in the light of dawn is lovely.
To cry soft tears for the motley world is lovely.
To sing joyfully for the broad earth is lovely.

My homeland, like poetry, is lovely.
My country, like song, is lovely.
To experience the turning seasons is lovely.
Rain falling on Ereentsev is lovely!


4

The falling of a single leaf is lovely.
The sun rising over the hills is lovely.
The striiring of a gentle, gentle wind is lovely.
The rising of a still and silent waterspout is lovely.

A glistering fire is lovely.
A single fly sitting on a wave is lovely.
Yellow shit unwinding from a horse is lovely.
The motility of a cart’s crossbeam is lovely.

To think less about near and far is lovely.
A person coming from a town to tell you something is lovely.
Standing watching shapes appear is lovely.
The flapping of a silken towel is lovely.

The movement of white cumulus clouds is lovely.
The mind unwinding within the heart is lovely.
The whispering of drizzling rain is lovely.

A horseman galloping by is lovely.
The thundering of hooves us lovely.
To watch the edges of the sky is lovely.
To trace out cart-tracks is lovely.

Birds flying southwards are lovely.
Their song amongst the clouds is lovely.
The hazy golden of the sun is lovely.
A wild swirl of leaves skirting us by is lovely.

Rain against the yellow sun is lovely.
To pound the strings of the shanz is lovely.
The elegance of noble Khongorzul is lovely.
To think about my idle little brother is lovely.

The nearby clank of silver inlay stirrups is lovely.
A smartly-dressed horseman dismounting is lovely.
The three stages of the aurumn moon are lovely.
The moon coming out over the roofhole on a still evening is lovely.

Listening to stories at a party is lovely.
Chatting about what’s left of an old temple is lovely.
A night of stories, the moon striking the window, is lovely.
Soothing away demons by plaing the flute is lovely.

The moon on a cold evening is lovely.
The stars polished by the wind are lovely.
The balance of sunrise and sunset is lovely.
The similar bedtimes of horses and humans is lovely.

The filigree gleaming on the rocks of earth is lovely.
And writing poetry on them in feathergrass is lovely.
The mind upon the wind which flaps the roof is lovely.
To be too far from a love close by is lovely.

Birds sitting in the leafy world of twigs are lovely.
The Mongolian melodies they sing are lovely.
The blazing sun of the powerful State is lovely.
To ignite the fire of the golden Soyombo is lovely.

To sing when someone comes is lovely.
To weep when someone goes is lovely.
The music of desire in the heart is lovely.
The striking bells of passing time are lovely.

To come in at dusk is lovely.
To go in the light of dawn is lovely.
To cry soft tears for the motley world is lovely.
To sing joyfully for the broad earth is lovely.

Tears are falling from my eyes,
Oh, they well up, they brim over,
For the four seasons in my country.
Ah, my dear ones….

Translated by Simon Wickham-Smith

Lamjav Myagmarsüren

LIKE MOONLIGHT REFLECTED IN JADE

Truth and lies are like moonlight reflected in jade.
I offer to Heaven your loveliness, and
Tie upon it my wish to be with you, to stroke your hair on a pillow.
Beneath your window, I smoke and smoke for the longest time.
My shadow gets tired of me, it weakens into the darkness.

Your laughter is carried through the morning air.
It stimulates me, awakens all my senses.
And, in the beauty of your laughter, even your window
Appears, despite itself, to smile.
My inexhaustible love will cradle you,
Your laughter will enfold and nourish my heart.

I stole your laughter from the wind, it never reached the ground.
I took it into my heart, I sprinkled it on the skin of my mind.
I’ll keep my trust safe, it will soften the morning light and,
As I think of you, I am caressing love.
I’ll carry the molecules of my insignificant body, one by one,
And make up for all the wasted time I can’t get back.

Truth and lies are like moonlight reflected in jade.
I offer to Heaven your loveliness beauty, and
Tie upon it my wish to be with you, to stroke your hair on a pillow.
Beneath your window, I smoke and smoke for the longest time.
My shadow gets tired of me, it weakens into the darkness.

Ochirbatyn .Dahsbalbar

***

My life is in the white grasses that sway in the wind,
My beautiful Motherland…
I want to purify my mind, give the flesh of my body to your green grasses!
I want to reach happiness, dissolve into the pure, transparent waters of your rivers!
Your eternal sky looks down upon me, oh my Motherland,
And I dry my tears with the grey clouds of the sky.
The Mongolian sun dazzles my eyes with gold,
And smiles like my son Gangabaatar.

I’ll play in the skirts of your sun-yellow mountains, oh my Motherland.
Grant me your life and your merit, oh my sacred mountains…
Sparrows sing in the evening air, send symphonies into my heart.
My mind grows close to Yanjinglhama, resounds with her golden zither.

The dung smoke from the ger draws a curtain in blue across the feet of your distant mountains.
Sheep and goats bleat, cows low, the clear air splashes, and
Truly, the children’s cheerful voices flows the river forth, and
Hardly a breeze sways at the top of the pines.
My meadow-scented mind of wind
Dissolves into the silky air…I know the story!

STANDING ON A WINDY HILL ONE AUTUMN EVENING

In ultimate slowness, these berrybrown hills have floated through time.
Faded grasses are sheltering this autumn evening from the bitter wind….
Like my brothers, these hills are used to the world to which they are come,
Like berrybrown birds, they feel the sanctuary of many, many mountains….

The bluegrey smoke of the gers spreads out over the hills.
The bluegrey stars shine in the hollows through the night.
Like grains of sand, the pale earth pours through my fingers.
And time will make my mind pure, like golden sand.

I lie amid the autumn grass and talk with the hills.
Under the silent skies, the nature of the eternally unspoken draws close.
I nod at what is said of bittersweet, of grasping what is too great, and
I feel the nature of the tiniest knolls through the hills upon the wild steppe.

We come to recognise one another, we start through vision to talk, and
Like two lovers, I and the hills become as one….
The hills are feeling the bitter cold this autumn evening, they seek shelter.
I love my mother Nature, who has made these moving hills for me.

The wisdom which completes the incomplete takes form among the hills,
And tears fall into my palm like drops of rain.
This autumn evening, the camels bellow and the withered grass is sad,
And in the sanctuary of the hills I seek refuge from the piercing wind.

My mind feels sad for me upon this living earth.
I hear an orphaned camel calf, bellowing through the years.
This autumn evening, I sit upon the hill like my grandfather, my legs crossed,
And I tell the rosary of my life through the melody of my thoughts.


***

A spring in a saltmarsh,
weeping like a camel’s eye, and
a line of cranes,
tethered like endless days –
they have cradled
my proud support, my motherland,
my own father.
A lake of tears,
aware of the meadow’s children, and
the secret mountains,
obscuring our homeland’s borders –
they have embraced
my heavenly seat, my motherland,
my own mother who bore me.
1996

TIME

Dark dark dark dark skies….
Endless endless endless endless time….
Beginningless beginningless, endless space, space….
Deserted deserted, nothing to match the time, the time….
Billowing on the limitless shore of space, of time’s great dark river,
the law, the people and towns, the sun and moon are afloat on this great
river.
But time prevails in this turning world, time is victorious.
The stars are, and they are not, and time connects all, washes all away.
Dark dark, the great river of time billows onwards….
Inconceivable inconceivable space, and here and there the fire of faith
flashes.
We are drowning in the river of vast time,
but do we not, with time, replenish our bodies?
Amid the silence of the not quite empty, not quite empty space,
the world’s sphere revolves, wearing itself away….
A single eye watches a leaf, me, floating on the river of time,
imagines it, unsevered from timelessness….
1979-1982


***

The white night is sleeping like a foal, resting its head on the rocks in the river. Not even the miserable donkey awakens it, nor the jangling iron cart of the water. Was this night sent by the khaan, like his belovèd lady is it resting here?
Not even the Buddha knows the answer. But, after the rain, sleep evades me. I am a young man, so I work at night. It’s like the needle of time. Night is flying, its wings white….
The cliffs gather close to the flow of the river, the night sleeps soundlessly. The lapdogs nearby fear waking it, they gather in their voices. The flow of the river lullabies the night with endless stories. A sudden shift might endanger the night. Far away it flies. I am thinking….Life is tough. The night sleeps, but how come I do not? If I slept, the night would kidnap me. The white night is sleeping like a foal, resting its head on the rocks in the river. Like a woman, this earth is waiting for an answer from Heaven!
1978

I LIVE BY COSMIC LAWS

I am living by cosmic laws.
By force of will, I was born to the reprobate earth, but I was birthed in truth by a star.
I am contained by the whole earth.
My life on earth is limited.
When the cord was cut, my breathing had rhythm.
Between the start and the finish,
how far I look behind, and stare ahead, is limited.
I live in the breath of the world.
My heart pounds out the beating of the stars,
my veins pulse with the whispering of water,
and the fire’s warmth blazes in my life.
I am living by cosmic laws.
I am granted destiny beneath the moon.
My breathing, thinking, walking on the earth
is limited exactly by the distant stars.
I hold my lover on a cold autumn night,
listening to the grass on the silent wild steppe.
And lips touching softly, and holding hands,
I remain upon the screen of the wide world.
The woman asleep in my lap,
there is no-one else knows this sweet moment.
This, my predestined fondness,
in the logbook of a hundred million years upon the earth.
We have both suffered under cosmic laws.
My body has ridden a multitude to get here.
The wind, storms, the wild steppe, stars by day, autumn knolls -
all that is in the round earth justifies me.
I am living by cosmic laws.
My prayers have made me man, not monkey!
Oh, lying down, I sigh, sigh oh my own powerlessness.
Up into the darkness I stare, and there is reconciliation!
A flame at night calms the whistling of the universe.
A woman holds you through nine months of gentle evenings.
In the boundless cosmos, I turn with the earth’s sphere,
in the myriad assembly of stars, I travel on, honoring the human form!
1983

Danzannyam Shagdarsüren

A DISTANT SONG OF ABSENCE


The weather clears up in your smile,
And the pure moon chooses growth upon the sands.
The mind awakens beneath your gaze,
And our dear ones choose to delay their joy with you.

The stars are happy when you sing,
And silver dust glitters on the earth.
And, when you remember, signs and omens
Bring the shaman’s dreams at night.

The sun shines in your mind,
And iron is tempered in its heat.
I put my trust in you for my desires,
It is for you I sing this little song.

THE STEPPE

In the distance, glittering with mirages,
Things come together and drift apart.
And, as the dark brown khaliun run,
A gentle flame brushes their stirrups.

In the eyes of one used to the steppe,
The edge of heaven appears nearby.
In the actions of the horses, used to distance,
It seems their homeland stretches straight ahead.

Above, a kite is circling,
Taking the measure of the broad steppe.
And so, tired out below.
I rest upon a hill, I crane my neck back.

Sh Sürenjav

I AM THE CHILD OF THE SKY



I have come among you as the child of the sky.
I married a girl from the earth,
And drank tea from the cup of the sun.
I got soiled in bitter wine
And tried to find the land of misery.
I sat astride the mountains, I rushed the white snows into flurries,
I played at swinging back and forth between the hills.
As the rains of time poured from heaven, I took pleasure
In climbing the raindrops
Like a rope.
I made a necklace of the stars,
And placed it over a flower’s head.
I have come among you as a child of the sky.
I took the fiery snake from the forked lightning of Khormast,
And exhausted myself by whipping the scapegoat’s back.
I poked a pitchfork at the curly-horned cow,
Rather than at the beady black eyes of ignorance.
I muttered away misfortune and intoned purity into all things.
I crept beneath children and the old and supported the petals of flowers.
I read people’s thoughts from the expression of their eyes,
And I separated truth and lies from the tips of their words.
My senses felt their way through Khurmast’s palace,
And I became known as a poet through the pure waters of my mind.
When I tasted something,
I spat it out disdainfully, I had no expectations.
I have come among you as a child of the sky.
Why my heavenly father is dozing,
Dreaming awhile,
I have came into the world.
As soon as he awakes, I shall go.
Until then, I am with you,
Propping up the clouds, reciting epics,
Sitting with your horsehead fiddles,
Singing songs.
Oh, my country, my people,
When I return, please just give me a horsehead fiddle!
I shall sing your words,
And mollify my heavenly father.
And, pulling down the rain from the palate of the clouds,
I shall always protect you.
I have come among you as a child of the sky.
You, my rocks of marble,
Please remember well
These words of mine.

Damdinsuren Uriankhai

A SPACE SURROUNDED BY FELT WALLS


At a crossroads on the warm earth, they plant
A space surrounded by felt walls.
They’ve made a start, they’re settling in -
Oh, my blessèd, bountiful earth!

Birds fly in lines across the autumn rains,
Fledglings migrating towards the sun.
The foolish flee, they say they will not go,
Their loving families slaughter one another.

Oh these poor ones, what will they do?
Such scant attention to reward and punishment!
My homeland, this is what you are,
The very marrow of our bones!

They think only to sit and fawn
Over the dumb rapids of a stream.
They think only to sit and fear
The river’s brutal snarl.

Below the featherfaced children
Of those poor unlettered birds,
Strange creatures are born to wander,
To peck away at these dear ones.

Riches nomads cannot grasp,
Though poverty they understand.
They stand and make an offering,
Every morning, of the very best of teas.

The threads of the silken earth’s destiny
Are woven within the space enclosed.
They’ve made a start, they’re settling in -
Oh, my blessèd, bountiful earth!

BENEATH THE PROTECTING SUN


Beneath the protecting sun,
Day comes to no harm and night comes to no harm.
I search for many years around the dusty edges.
Friends are kind from childhood and enemies kill each other.

I, beneath the protecting sun,
Stamp upon a insect, my mind full of misery.
My feebleness is tempered by my guilt,
I brandish at myself the sword of hatred.

I, beneath the protecting sun,
Sway and sway like the green grass.
I loom, I loom up like a sheer cliff,
I dessicate the truth upon the elders’ tongues.

I, beneath the protecting sun,
Circle the ger and circle the world.
I repay the kindness of the fortunate,
And, in the place of honor, I gain the world’s respect.

I, beneath the protecting sun,
Write poems like the daytime stars.
My Mongolian poems, with their sunny words,
Recall people and years, like the star of morning.

I, beneath the protecting sun,
Ask from Heaven the blessings of old age.
I ride in winter over many high passes,
Upon a horse that’s not the worse for wear.

I, beneath the protecting sun,
With my Mongol heart absorbed with others,
With my own truth, constant as time passes,
With my life and land, am unexposed to death.