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.

Three hundred talented men got together and didnt put their goblets down for three months. They ate greedily of provender so generous it was like a river and all their predations so much steam. The feast that shook the world having concluded, His Highness Bogd declared two thousand and seventy poets and welcomed them to the special feast at his new palace. Having been awarded golden brocade, the poets received his blessing with gratitude and went back to their homes. But while everybody so adorned was haughtiness itself, thirty tender-hearted poets wrote poems in anxiety having been strictly detained for three months, with the sound of sorrow creaking in their ears.

They nearly died of starvation. The sorrow of poets is never the same as the sorrow of others. Having picked its feathers, the bird cried until its breast was pierced. All of them grieved in the dark corners of the prison, but three poets would not put their writing brush away. Having composed their songs of happiness, twenty-seven poets were set free and awarded with golden brocade and were respectfully sent off on long journeys. The strong-willed three poets who had passed the test of the Emperor were granted golden thrones and crowned with crowns of fame. One of them sank his talent into his soft seat and bed-happiness.

One of them became a royal poet who harmonized his poems to favor his masters and melodiously praised their privilege, entertaining princesses and queens. Only one of all the poets chose another way. He whom the knights saw as defective proceeded in search of his truth. He looked long at the mountains, dozing and hazy. He stared at the sky with its confused clouds. When horsemen mounted a military campaign, he put his feet in the stirrups of the horse of his poems. As the earth rolled over and his nation relaxed, he wrote the timeless truth without allowing the feet of his steed to slow down. Thus, the Mongolian poet appeared, praising the story of horsemen, holding aloft his nine-foot banner.

Among his virtuous people, this poet devoted his whole life to singing. He stood at the head of a long line of creative work, striving to accomplish deeds in which his name would need to be forgotten. It isnt easy to define the whitest white among many white jades. It isnt easy to recognize in that time of greatness, the talent and wisdom of the divine. It isnt possible to say who wrote the great epics of blue Mongolia. One can only note their traces have not worn away under the hard yoke of hundreds of years.