I shall blaze like a candle in the isolation of the mind within.
I shall be sky blue in the faraway legends of our wild eastern steppe.
I shall wash in the delicate white rays of the hunchback moon.
I shall rest on the deep broad sands of our Ganga Nuur.

I shall shred the silken threads of grey-white clouds.
I shall examine white in the shadow of white feather-grass.
I shall be captured by the wind-bowed blue-green grass.
I shall roll out towards the horizon, along the great nomadic train.

Remaining there, listening in sadness to our Mongolian melodies,
I shall awaken every morning to the sound of the horse-head fiddle.
And living around the stones, watching over the fire of the Mongol home,
I shall shine everywhere upon the hoof-drum steppe.