Works

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POETICS AND THE PYRAMID

Near the ruins of the city around Mexico’s pyramid, they found a crystal human skull. The man who found this crystal skull dreamed that he saw what was happening a thousand years ago, as though in a movie. This skull produced unending amazement in anthropological circles and he explained what ancient peoples of our earth had done, and answered the scholars’ questions about how the ancients had used the skull and with what implements they had made it. There were noisy rumors that such crystal skulls had been found, not only in Mexico and America, but in Mongolia too.
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DARK CRANES, FLYING TOWARDS YOU

I wrote this poem, called "I am coming to you," in a large group of tents beneath a starry sky, one night, swimming in a deep sleep. At that moment, as I gazed at the peaks of the great hills, overcome by the feeling that the dark cranes were flying beyond those lofty, white mountains, the poem took birth. They came to me, the child of nomads, raised as the dark cranes of the saltmarshes had been raised, they came to the bright pages of my notebook, these dark cranes of desire, so many of them, flying in complex filigree.
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TAKING STORIES FROM RAINBOWS TO MAKE A VESSEL OF POETRY

Some eight hundred years ago, the Mongolian haan Hubilai had the idea of sailing from his country to Japan. He thought to bring eight thousand boats across Korea, which was then under his juridiction, that he might on the boats transport his cavalry over to the islands of Japan. It was a very romantic and earnest desire, and it was never realised.
However, I have made a boat with poetry’s divine purity and fulfilled this thirteenth century desire, and made a link between the peaceful wishes of the people of Mongolia and Japan. Poetry cannot be grasped in the hand, it iss a magic rainbow. And so I have named this book of mine The Rainbow Vessel.
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THE TEMPLE OF MY SAVING MOTHER

1 MEDITATION
I am sitting among Ongon's many great hills of yellow sand.  I close my eyes, reflecting, dissolving into eternal skylike mind, a blue thumb-sized spot with a red triangle of flame flickering imperceptibly within...and then...a white dot...like a square of yellow sunlight striking the door of a ger…the qualities of the wise, their form and appearance, appear from beyond time.
So how should the excellent seed of human activity, from the peaceful void of the fully purified mind, be seen as the holiness of nirvana, a departure from the world in that space which is no more than the flickering tip of a candle?
The mind, meditating in the brilliance of mind upon the form of Dharma, together with the quality of emptiness, finally achieves the superior holiness of constancy.
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A POET`S STORY

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 GOLDEN BOOK CALLED THE JADE KEY

This is the golden book called The Jade Key, which opens the highly secret box of beryl, describing the origins of creatures on the wheel of destiny, in the sky and on the earth.

1
...the people of the stars shone brightly upon the canopy of Heaven.  Mounted on pyramids amid the total nothingness, they descended to the unknown mountains.  At that time, our world was pitch black.  Light radiated from the pyramids and lit up the darkness.  In the light, it could be seen that there was no water flowing, no grass growing - there was absolutely nothing.  The shining people went searching in all directions.  They searched, but they found nothing, and returned by the light of their pyramids, standing on the wooded mountains.  But for no reason, they went looking again.  They wandered around and there was a path through the world...
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THE CRANES

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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QUICKWIT THE CAMEL

1
There fell from the sky into the narrow sandy gorge of a mountain pass a single huge blue stone.  But to look at it, we would see not a stone, but only a camel lying down.  As the sky traced out its path overhead, the skin on his two erect humps sagged down, weak and emaciated.  He stood with his legs apart and slapped at the swarms of black flies with his tail, but even the grasses irritated him.  Tears flowed from his eyes, like pearls of spring water and, in his watery eyes, the sky stretched a deep blue to its furthest edges and there rose a pale blue mountain, which seemed to him to be in the way.  Behind this mountain ran a great red-colored pass, where soil tumbled down and where the water was sucked dry.  In the skirts of the fine sand, he practiced walking ten paces at a time and, with the sun’s help, he crept forward, meter after meter.  And the further he moved, the more the place lost its sting and grew attractive to him.
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GOLDEN HILL THROUGH THE SEASONS

I initially imagined my Golden Hill as a silver bridle-stud upon the ground of Heaven.  That was winter. Later, I stood in the face of the wind upon the great turquoise steppe and drew the mountains as though they were horses whose manes and tails were like fringed offering scarves.  That was spring  I drew the hill with deep blue wings, like a crane swooping down into an indistinct white mirage.  That was summer.  I ended up drawing the yellowish jewel of the hill as though it were a model carriage with a braided canopy.  That was autumn.  Thus, I committed an image of Golden Hill to paper in each of the four seasons, in winter, spring, summer and autumn.
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