LETTER WRITTEN FROM THE WILD STEPPE
If you say you’d understand Mongolia’s wild steppe,
if you say you’d look upon someone else,
we’ll draw up the cart outside a nomad’s tent
like a single button on a broad swathe of blue brocade,
Then I’ll saddle up a little wild horse for you,
this horse will calmly bring the moon closer.
Though north, south east and west are not marked,
they form a ring who’s center is you.
The world is a sphere who’s very centre is you.
At its peak, the blue sky is turned upside down,
a twinkling mirage. The horse neighs.
Though no-one’s working, a city rises up.
Though no-one’s playing, a fiddle’s singing.
The horse has jewelled wings. Its wings are the long song.
The wild steppe has a measure. The measure is the long song.
At once you begin to sing. It doesn’t go astray, your song.
The human stones know it by heart. When it echoes back
from the wild steppe, it is the rider of history’s steed,
the human stones, who sing.
Höhdei Mergen comes in the evening, herding the stars.
Please sit down, place your feet in the green grass.
Tether your horse to the Pole Star.
Invite the Great Bear to the place of honor in the wilderness.
The door to Shambhala is open.
When the blur of history enters, it grows clear.
Steel at your hips. Mountains and grasses in your pockets.
The elders’ fires, among the stones of Shambhala,
blaze and spark. The dungfires burn and flare.
A flask of water at the saddle-thongs to pour into a cup.
The stones glow red. The food is added.
A face, flushed with tea and fatigue is relieved.
When you want to sleep, spread out the saddle-cloth.
Rest your head on the saddle.
Stretch your legs over the green steppe, stretch your arms
Across the eastern steppe. The eastern steppe is your bed. .
Above are stars and sky. This is your blanket.
As you slumber, the storywinds of the steppe whisper.
There is no difference here between truth and dream.
When, in the silence, the dark blue wolves howl,
fear possesses you. Sin comes from sinless eyes.
The kind mother feeds the lost orphan,
Shaluu, this poor wolf.
When wolf’s ancestor married the Hьnnь,
they sang the long song for the first time.
Sleep like a story’s conclusion, arise like a story’s beginning.
Lay the dawn’s rays beneath the saddlecloth, make ready the horse.
Watch the stars along the sky’s blue ridges.
The horse, away in the distance, whinnies long and hard.
There is news from the place you’re going.
The brown eagle is soaring towards you.
2006
if you say you’d look upon someone else,
we’ll draw up the cart outside a nomad’s tent
like a single button on a broad swathe of blue brocade,
Then I’ll saddle up a little wild horse for you,
this horse will calmly bring the moon closer.
Though north, south east and west are not marked,
they form a ring who’s center is you.
The world is a sphere who’s very centre is you.
At its peak, the blue sky is turned upside down,
a twinkling mirage. The horse neighs.
Though no-one’s working, a city rises up.
Though no-one’s playing, a fiddle’s singing.
The horse has jewelled wings. Its wings are the long song.
The wild steppe has a measure. The measure is the long song.
At once you begin to sing. It doesn’t go astray, your song.
The human stones know it by heart. When it echoes back
from the wild steppe, it is the rider of history’s steed,
the human stones, who sing.
Höhdei Mergen comes in the evening, herding the stars.
Please sit down, place your feet in the green grass.
Tether your horse to the Pole Star.
Invite the Great Bear to the place of honor in the wilderness.
The door to Shambhala is open.
When the blur of history enters, it grows clear.
Steel at your hips. Mountains and grasses in your pockets.
The elders’ fires, among the stones of Shambhala,
blaze and spark. The dungfires burn and flare.
A flask of water at the saddle-thongs to pour into a cup.
The stones glow red. The food is added.
A face, flushed with tea and fatigue is relieved.
When you want to sleep, spread out the saddle-cloth.
Rest your head on the saddle.
Stretch your legs over the green steppe, stretch your arms
Across the eastern steppe. The eastern steppe is your bed. .
Above are stars and sky. This is your blanket.
As you slumber, the storywinds of the steppe whisper.
There is no difference here between truth and dream.
When, in the silence, the dark blue wolves howl,
fear possesses you. Sin comes from sinless eyes.
The kind mother feeds the lost orphan,
Shaluu, this poor wolf.
When wolf’s ancestor married the Hьnnь,
they sang the long song for the first time.
Sleep like a story’s conclusion, arise like a story’s beginning.
Lay the dawn’s rays beneath the saddlecloth, make ready the horse.
Watch the stars along the sky’s blue ridges.
The horse, away in the distance, whinnies long and hard.
There is news from the place you’re going.
The brown eagle is soaring towards you.
2006