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THE KHAAN’S SECRET


An exceptionally clear night hung over Delüün Boldog, on the river Onon.   Not even the most fleeting of clouds appeared in the sky and the first full moon of summer rose like a silver lantern, rinsing the earth in its silverwhite rays.
   
Negüün Taiji looked out over the surrounding land and gave thought to the skies.  “So, tonight Queen Öülen will give birth,” he said to himself.  Skillfully assisted by the seven sons of Khabul Khaan, he had taken land from the hero Bartan and from Bartan’s four sons, and then the hero Yesükhei had brought the state to heel.
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A FOAL HEADS HOME

A poor orphaned foal trotted dispondently over the hills.  He had been bright and full of energy when his mother was around but, now that she was gone, oh, how he suffered!  In front of him, swallows were diving through the air.  The poor creature had no idea where he was going, led as he was in all directions by mysterious and invisble omens.  Deprived of his mother, the strong sun made him feel weak.  A fine dust built up on his scraggy backbone, flies and midges covered his face and eyes, and suffering piled upon suffering.  Overcome by the dust, he came to where a herd of horses had gathered around a lake of pungent water.  He trotted towards a pale colored horse and, although he was afraid and hung back, the other horse wouldn't let him approach, laying back his ears and balking him.  He was finally encircled and subdued by a rough black stallion.
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Ballad about a colt running back to its parents birthplace. (Nostalgia)

Version 2
Oh, a poor light chestnut orphan colt tramped through the rolling hills and without an enthusiasm started jogging down. After its mother’s death he was in great bereavement. In front of him a swallow traced a circle in the air. This lovely animal, very gullible, was unaware of his direction but a kind of instinct was leading him to somewhere. He lost his mother. The parching sun scorched his body. The invisible dust garnered in the coat on his wiry back. The flies swarmed on his eyes and face. They were a nuisance.
This lovely colt fell into a dust arose by him. He was thirsty for water and came near the harem of mares and horses which bunched together in sweltering hot day in the pond. At the start he cringed back in fear and clung to each light chestnut pony. Each pony did not treat him in a friendly manner by laying down their ears. The colt was in fear and stood aloof. But a black cryptochid colt of three years drove him away by menacing to bite.
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THE BALLAD OF THE FORTY-ONE SWANS

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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THE STORY OF A POET

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 STORY OF A POET

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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THE STORY OF A POET

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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The Moon over an Old Temple

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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SONG OF THE MOON

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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