In the dawn rays, the spring water turns ever clearer
Wafting the juniper incense, the air turns ever cleaner
Blessed by the eternal sky, the mountain spring chuckles and burbles
Inside the silver chalice, it grows even more crystalline
The dew of thousand flowers merges with the clouds and mist
A shimmering white cloud glides to the mountain pastures
Praising the glory of the morning, a warbler trills
The cuckoo calls. Its song diffuse into the holy water in the chalice

The mountain path twists and winds. The mist and haze grow thin
The rushing water chuckles and burbles, diving beneath the moss

The new morning sun, wind, and pollen fill the yurt
The papers spread across the table awaiting 
A droplet of water, like a tear, rolls from the tip of the brush
Fragrant with the flora, the ink drifts as clouds
The wheel of time together with the sky composes itself on the paper
The steam of tea and the cloud mists dissolve, disappearing.

Desires and dreams morphed to melody, trails the brush
And leaves the dreamer behind, carrying the soul
The thread, a scribble left by a young man
Is pulled from creation by the hook of the brush
Fire and water grow together, boiling the mother tea
By nature, all harmonize within the sphere of senses
On the white steppes, written texts trace the tracks of a carriage
Chronicles of history together with time await the age of Shambhala 

Translation from Mongolian by Nyamdash Amarbal
 

This poem was written in dedication to renowned calligrapher D. Battumur, and highlights his unique philosophy around calligraphy. The late Battumur famously only used living water for his calligraphy, choosing to imbue his works with the energy of the land in which he put his brush to paper.