The shattered sun reddens, weak
Amid clouds of dust.
Their tired horses' manes droop,
The weary heroes helmets glisten.
They set up the pavilion
With shining standards erect.
At evening, thoughts flash and
Open into the master's mind:
With no chance to shake off even the dust from the road,
He gives his orders:
To find the poet whose star is rising,
The spirit of whose talents gushes forth,
They charge full-pelt along the road,
With urgent missives flying through the day.
Crossing the ravines of peaceful mountains,
Fording a thousand rivers,
The hooves of hale horses growing lame,
They raced to a halt alongside the famous poets.
Gers of white silk stood side by side,
A thousand sheep were slaughtered for their flesh,
The very best of airag glistened, and
Serving maids and toastmasters and children all ran
To the confluence of three rivers, where
The three hundred came together,
Never setting down their goblets for three months,
Nor taking the sun for three months.
The milky distillation flowed like a river,
Ran dry like springs and streams.
The feast that shook the world drew to a close.
His Holiness gave his orders.
As the residence moved onwards,
Two hundred seventy poets
Proceeded to a special feast,
Received their reward of silk brocade.
With gratitude for his blessing,
They headed home.
Everyone was proud in their deel.
Thirty sensitive poets,
Who wrote heartfelt verse,
Were held in custody for three months,
And very nearly starved to death,
Their songs of sadness pressing on their ears.
One poet's misery is
Surely not the same as others':
A grey bird plucks out its feathers,
Then moans its distress at piercing its chest.
In the dark depths of imprisonment,
In these miserable conditions,
Three poets never put away their brushes,
But sat and wrote their joyous odes.
Twenty-seven were released,
Received their reward of silk brocade and,
A coach and two being harnessed,
Were sent off with honor to a distant land.
Having passed the king's test,
Those three determined poets
Were placed upon the golden lion throne
And crowned with fame.
The days and months passed by,
The world turned and turned.
One sat upon a cushion and
Sunk his talent into homely joys.
One sang praise to privilege
To please his master -
A royal poet, giving
Pleasure to queens and princesses.
Only one of them
Chose to follow another path.
He had been thought uncouth by the ministers,
He went searching for his own truth.
He looked, sleepily, upon misty mountains,
He gazed, confused, into cloudy skies,
While the brilliant horsemen rode away,
He mounted his poetic steed.
The earth turned, and
The entire nation was at rest, and
He wrote the everlasting truth,
Not dragging his feet through time.
By the nine-tailed banner,
Among the virtuous masses,
The Mongol poet revealed himself,
Faithfully singing the story of horsemen.
It is not easy to find a special white stone
Among many white jades,
Nor is it easy now to recognise
The talents and wisdom of divinity.
The precious, shining path has not been worn away
By the hard yoke of the centuries.
It is not easy to say who wrote
The epics of azure Mongolia, but
He devoted his whole life,
He committed himself to his work, and
His name is forgotten.
It is not easy to make such an effort...