Дэлхий ээж тандаа би хайртай
World Poetry Days in Mongolia


When the cool wind of autumn came, the birds began to leave. For many years, smoke from dungfires had swirled upwards where the red willows stood beside a pond, rooted like sacred water in a cup.  The old couple looked on as one swan from their flock grew its feathers but - for some unexplained reason - was unable to fly.  One autumn evening, as the sleet blew all around, the flock turned in formation upon the surface of the lake.  Struggling along at the rear, the cygnet grew sad that he couldn’t rise from the water and fly away. What would happen to him, poor thing?  And so, his flock flew off, leaving him to go round and round in circles, without success.
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Version 2

Amidst the hot air stiffened with dust and standing in columns The exhausted sun was blushing feebly The victorious heroes in glittering helmets Were leaning on their tired horses with manes dangling down 
The air was hot and stiff with dust. The exhausted sun had lost most of its red. Standing in columns, the victorious heroes in glittering helmets leaned on the limp manes of their tired horses.
His Highness Bogdo,s new Gher was ready. The sacred Emblem had already been enshrined. He suddenly had the ghost of an idea. Before he had even shaken off the dust from his long ride, His Highness issued a proclamation and sent out letters with the greatest of dispatch, inviting the stellar poets of his realm to assemble at his new residence without delay.
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Version 3

In the middle of a rising column of dust, the fatigued sun was losing its red strength. Above and beyond the limp manes of exhausted horses and the glittering helmets of victorious heroes, a palace had been constructed, the sacred emblem had been enshrined. In the heart of his Highness, an unusual thought glinted: he stopped only long enough to brush off the dust of the streets before he announced his Order. All were required (Tracing the stationary way The feathered notes had flown in that day) to seek to discover a poet of stellar talents. Messengers roared down the passes, smoothing mountains, crossing over the shallows of a thousand rivers, wearing the hoofs off strong horses: they rushed down at the well-known poets, having lined up glossy white ghers, having prepared a feast of a thousand sheep, having spilled the best of airag, having readied waiters and servants at the junction of three rivers.
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At first, this tale
Was known to only one.
Nowadays, this tale
Must be known by many.

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, there was an unimaginably empty, terrifyingly immense abyss. In that abyss, there was nothing but emptiness, there was nothing. There was no earth, there was no water, no air, no golden sun, nothing.
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I am a child of nomadic Mongolia.  We would move at the break of dawn. As a child I used to sit in a basket on the loaded cart, greeting the morning sunshine at the even pace of the plodding camel; perhaps it was then that I felt the rhythm of my future poems. When we reached our new camp, everything – the blue cranes, the small trace of white fog, the cluster of boulders, the variegated hills – would seem new to me.
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