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 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.

On a thousand mountainous heaps of Ongon sand, the blessing of the Buddhas of a thousand kalpas, permeated by the milk of primordial holiness, one hundred and eight flowers of five colors, rise up to form the small circle of the mandala.
The holy reincarnations, who have meditated on the golden sand, the pure wood and the bright flowers of this land called Ongo, purified throughout a thousand kalpas, meet in the complete and powerful mandala palace.

I am creating a temple of bright quartz for my mother.  The eternal blue skies are the covering sphere of an inverted shining temple.
From overhead, the rays of the sun, the ornament of midday burning the top of my head, gild the pinnacle of the shining temple.
I meditate that the gentle rain which pleasure the fluttering leaves and flowers sprinkles the dragons, which eternally look upon each other and writhe amid the white clouds on the temple ceiling,
A ring of dark mountains encircles the walls of the quartz temple of my mother, rising up like an unshakable king.
And where, we might ask, is the lovely and precious lion throne?  I meditate in the clarity of mind, contemplating the assembly of Buddhas, divinely canopied by the light of the perfect land which glimmers on the yellow hills of the plain.
My mother, my homeland...oh, this your shining quartz temple, my mother.

Oh, my mother!  Free me from the search for the perfect bright holiness, which is eternal peace!
What offering is made to you by these tokens of the earth, in which the essence of the peaceful land come together, the sprouting five-colored leaves which adorn the precious crystals of the homeland?
Meditating upon the blessing of the Buddhas running through the veins of the stone bodies of my wild, isolated steppe, I create the body of my mother, my true savior, through the manifestation of the thoughts assembled in these stones.
Your right foot brushes against the petals of the young columbine flowers on the skyblue steppe, your left foot treads upon the earth of the turquoise-green steppe, and I invite you to the lion throne of the gentle sands, to sit upon the cushion of the sands of Ongon.
In your face, a union of wisdom and skillful means, smiling like the moon in the sky, there manifests compassion, the ultimate care of protection, the liberation from all suffering.
In your right hand you hold the lotus flower, the display of the highest of gifts to all beings, the flower of your left hand offers up the knot which displays protection, and you open the leaves of the blue columbine in the river.

Oh, she is Tara, Buddha-mother-savior.
Oh, she is my savior-mother.

The golden offering of water from many pale blue springs amid the great sands of Ongon cools the savior Buddha's face and feet, and eternally shimmers as the four seasons turn.
Among the offerings are many blooms from the great sands of Ongon, and blue stones, like stars, which are signs of the world and of the earth, as well as the pure scent of fragrant grasses, and the neighborhood's most succulent food....

Over the saving Buddha, to the left, there shines a white moon of the fifteenth day, and, to the right, the round sun of the sixteenth day gleams brilliantly..
The everlasting flame, the mandala of the shining Buddha, is in the infinity of stars in the calm, flowing river of blue sky, and in the spiraling red fire which blazes in the hearths of every home.

A pure incense drifts through the shining temple, scenting the blue haze, drawing out the perfume of colorful flowers and of wormwood and thyme and other fragrant herbs.
The clear and ringing voice of the lark on the lonely plain sings out the soothing dharma of Buddha, and throws its song every morning into a light blue mist, every evening into a dark blue gloom and every day into a golden radiance.

The heavenly spirit of Dariganga is the azure overhead.
The land in the soul of Daringanga is the gilding underfoot.
The cloud of garudas over Dariganga is a flashing flight.
The turquoise hills of Dariganga are growing green.
The hearthfires of Dariganga are turning to crimson.

The light of pure Sukhavati grants transformation,
The gentle rain drops from the clear vessel,
The white conch of Dharma sounds in all directions,
The cushions of pure nectar blossom, and
I meditate upon the shining temple whose vitality is a blessing.

The lock on the gate of the turning world is open.
There is a little empty space in the human world,
Where the Buddha resides in every white ger in the district and
They wish for a melody from the precious horsehead fiddle.
Oh, my mother, may I come to this place.

Here in this peaceful mandala of a quartz temple,
Here in this land of the boundless and pure Buddha,
Here in this land of perfect and impartial joy,
Here, where superior birth grants blessing -
Free me from the search for the saving Buddha's holiness!  Oh, my mother!
translated by Simon Wickhamsmith