G.Mend-Ooyo
Дэлхий ээж тандаа би хайртай
World Poetry Days in Mongolia
Works

Poetry

The shattered sun reddens, weak
Amid clouds of dust.
Their tired horses' manes droop,
The weary heroes helmets glisten.
They set up the pavilion
With shining standards erect.
At evening, thoughts flash and
Open into the master's mind:
With no chance to shake off even the dust from the road,
He gives his orders:
To find the poet whose star is rising,
The spirit of whose talents gushes forth,
They charge full-pelt along the road,
With urgent missives flying through the day.
Crossing the ravines of peaceful mountains,
Fording a thousand rivers,
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THE CRANES

Poem
Excitedly, the black-faced cranes
Come every spring flapping their wings and,
Blue beards fluttering,
They 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
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Amidst the hot air stiffened with dust and standing in columns
The exhausted sun was blushing feebly
The victorious heroes in glittering helmets
We’re leaning on their tired horses with manes dangling down
Having His Gher-residence in place in no time
And the sacred Emblem enshrined
His Highness Bogdo felt by his heart
A glint of thought, a very unusual one
Hardly having shaken off the dust from the long ride
The Highness announced his Order.
Tracing the relay-service ways
Feathered letters went off on this day
To invite starry poets who
Flush with talent and wisdom.
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The moon rises over the old temple,
It’s transfigured light gilding the finial.
An air flows from a bamboo flute, and
The heart is filled once more by distant nostalgia.
 
Wild grasses push up between the stones,
Along the road where the Buddhas are gathered.
But I can’t see where the Buddhas have gone,
The light is so bright from the time beyond.
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I dropped into my ink the rays of the silver moon.
And their quality shone within the shining picture of eternity.

I wove the rays of the storytelling moon onto the tip of my vision.
And I sewed my poem-children with a perfect silken thread.

I struck the crystal of the nephrite moon onto my hardened heart.
And, in the darkness, there streamed from my poetry rays of jade.

I placed my song of grace before the mirror of the wise moon.
And my poem, with its shining soul, dwelt in the light of Shambhala.
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I think I came from Heaven at the Earth’s summons.
I believe that my fire was lit from bright Orion.
The story of the stars are pulled from the world of dream.
I am all alone, thinking about my origins.

The more I am alone, the more clearly I see myself.
The more I am alone, the more I understand the solitude of others.
The more I am alone, the more I penetrate invisible form.
The more I am alone, the more I perceive inaudible melody.
I call upon the freedom of solitude.
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The brightest light comes from the darkness alone.
And woman looks prettier in twilight,
Ear-ring sets shining in the evening alone.
A saddle’s studs sparkle at night,

The Gumuda flower blooms in the evening,
Homesick horses neigh at dawn’s setting.
Listening to songs makes the twilight shine in peoples’ moods.
The utmost shine comes from the peoples’ emanating love.
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We set out on our horses, and the small birds of dawn were with us.
We return to the tethering-lines with the magpies at evening.
For a hundred, hundred years, working skins, cutting wood, forging swords,
Humans will forge history after the candle goes out and blazes forth.

The river waters flow cloudy, and then clear again.
The firewood is doused, and flares again, upon the river bank.
The rocks of the world wear away, year by year, as they move and settle.
The ways of people are buried in the dust of a regular day.
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Hills burdened by deep thoughts abide
Languorous in the midst of flimsy mist.
Perhaps nostalgic of the days bygone,
At times they sigh with long, long winds.

As tears torn from moments of light sadness,
Blue, blue beads of dew shimmer on each leave.
Shedding sorrow and banishing the mist,
The hills regard me in their wise repose.
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Poetry