Prose
Prose
Extract from The Holy One
This desert we speak of is a highly secretive place. The wisdom of antiquity cannot outsmart it. This desert we speak of, though we see it, its yellowed borderlands are unknown, it is a sky blue world of a myriad unseen riddles. In the silence beyond, there is melody.
An old man in a tattered red deel, riding an old yellow camel with crossed humps, was crossing this oceanic desert, heading westwards. The camel loped along beyond the light blue hills, which showed amid the blue haze of morning. Some unknown song played away in the old man's mind. “Thirty-three deserts there are, but only three have I crossed..." - that was where the melody came from. And as the yellow camel with crossed humps crossed through the red saltwort of the vast desert, pulled by the wind, the grasses and the bushes whispered and rustled.
The old man tended always to be in a hurry. Today he was in a particular hurry. The sand grouses flew up here and there. Otherwise not a sound. He had no chance to whip the old yellow camel's sturdy sinews, nor to consider his own almost eighty years. The old man's dark, wrinkled face, his gnarled and cracked hands, were like the sandy folds of the desert, like the wounds in the hills. This desert we speak of has brought forth, over the course of time, animals and humans and rocks, all in their proper colors and forms.
An old man in a tattered red deel, riding an old yellow camel with crossed humps, was crossing this oceanic desert, heading westwards. The camel loped along beyond the light blue hills, which showed amid the blue haze of morning. Some unknown song played away in the old man's mind. “Thirty-three deserts there are, but only three have I crossed..." - that was where the melody came from. And as the yellow camel with crossed humps crossed through the red saltwort of the vast desert, pulled by the wind, the grasses and the bushes whispered and rustled.
The old man tended always to be in a hurry. Today he was in a particular hurry. The sand grouses flew up here and there. Otherwise not a sound. He had no chance to whip the old yellow camel's sturdy sinews, nor to consider his own almost eighty years. The old man's dark, wrinkled face, his gnarled and cracked hands, were like the sandy folds of the desert, like the wounds in the hills. This desert we speak of has brought forth, over the course of time, animals and humans and rocks, all in their proper colors and forms.
Prose
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.
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.
Prose
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...
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...
Prose
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.
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.
Prose
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.
Prose
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.
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.
Prose
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.
Prose
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.
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.
Prose
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.
Prose