Дэлхий ээж тандаа би хайртай
World Poetry Days in Mongolia


When tales of gentle and tranquil steppe come along from distant journeys,
Swallows in flocks embrace them with their circling welcome.
Since the day the little birds split the Water of Immortality on its land palms,
They didn’t dare to ever leave the turquoise steppe.

Once, when I was riding next to my father many years ago
I saw swallows flying all over the lone hills, searching for something special.
As I return from a distant time, today
I seem them again, still diligently circling in their search
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While damp run larch trees shivering in the chill already!
Bright red leaves like lit fire lie in front of you and me.
Resembling crossways that converge and part again
The veins of those leaves drawing our ways

A massive white fog drapes down like a curtain on the stage,
Making the dense forest look identical to stumps of sawn trees
I thought the trees of your wishes all had a fan of green leaves.
It is, as if the downhearted sky shed red leaves instead of tears.
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1. Prime melody

The urn-shaped sand dunes gloomed brown under the desert sun
Over a small stream refreshing with its swirling water their feet
On the small stream’s bed, under water, we, kids, saw a few Yembuu-shaped* stones
Lying in the fine, soft sand as if grown there by good luck to be with the stream

Perhaps, because stones were a rare thing in the pristine great sands
On that day we got keen to play with those stones from the small stream
And took them home to make horses and animals of them and play with
Against the days end the leather loop of my father’s whip roared like thunder over us
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Traveling through years 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.
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I love to rejoice, when at daybreak a white, chatty camel calf bellows.
I love to glint, when, amidst clouds, the transient bright moon pops out.
I love to shout, when a kid is born late in autumn’s reddish wind.
I love to thrill, when listening to the mellifluous verses of Master Yavuukhulan.
I love to blaze, when listening to melodious tunes of a cither and fiddle.
I love to rise along with the sun from beyond of my anemone-blue steppe.
I love to gallop like a flying flag, my cotoneaster whip in my hand.
I love to climb the snow-covered peak with leaping mountain goats.
I love to use Buckthorn and Sandalwood to produce melodious tunes.
I love to contemplate, to distinguish calico from brocade.
I love to shine lighting stars in the night’s gentle sky.
I love to flare at the peak of mine going up inch by inch.
I love to sing on the strings of the cither of the Holy Yanjinglhama.
I love to infinitely glare in the Crystal Temple of Poetry.
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With a steel blade I will lead my enemy.
With a steel pen I will lead my mind.
My blade has let history be,
In its stead I have seized my brush.
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The horseman lays down his head,
the mirage of horses lays down its head,
the horseblue hills lay down their heads

The steed lays down its head,
the pasture of steeds lays down its head,
the steed stones lay down their heads.

The horseblue steppe lays down its head,
the dust of horses lays down its head,
the horse time lays down ts head
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