It wasn’t a painter who was invited to design a stage
It was the divination who decided the mid summer sun
To draw a curtain of red cheesecloth in the horizon,
Through the fancy clouds’ brocade-blue gaps
Steppe Blue Mountains would come, from far, riding pillion on a Horse-Fata Morgana
Like old men from neighborhood their horses mounting and dismounting, in turn
A herd of horses with its chestnut stallion would come, too, haunted by swallows over a narrow appliqué mountain ridge,
Testing their gait in spank and canter, in turn
Sounds of bridles’ harnesses from more than hundred riders
Producing jingle of jingle bells in the mid summer sky,
The God’s demeanour of the old men with Zurgaadai sticks
Who walk very carefully through the steppe in their vamped boots not to harm the flowers
And watching a twittering sparrow against the sun
Listening to the sound of a trotting horse’s hooves
Getting excited of the smallest virtue of nature
Why all this? Isn’t it, because everything fits into its own being and space?
On fancy stages before an audience of hundred thousand
I often happened to stand, cherished by the pouring rain of applause
O dear, why was I not hasty to lean against the backs of the old men with suntanned face
To recite my verbs of horse’s neigh melody to them?
O, my dear countryside being forced to distance from me as ancient caravan roads did
My heart’s lovely spot that, too, comes running toward me when I rush to it
And my father, always at peace, who left on the lead of a horse and cart
And my lovely mother looking over the pass with her eyes shaded for her son, and chaffing year by year
Mare’s milk turns fermented when a horse neighs in the steppe
Fire shimmers in the hearth when stars start to blink in the sky
Making colostrums-tea by making water and fire meet
In essence, doesn’t all existing come to being through their alliance in Substance’s Holy Globe?
As everything returns to its origin and everything leaves breaking in pieces
I, too, will depart dissolving in the steppe and leave dispersed in the air
But before this happens, from the fancy of the oasis that hosts the sun in its marrows
I want to see how Holy Yanjinlham of Poetry rises prominent
Touching the withers of barkhans (dunes) with their silk-blue tufts
Blue teapot like storks come heading to their pool
Their small dark bellies denuded, chubby boys come rushing over
Along with their little sparrows, almost flying
Everything is in its place fitting its nature
With silver ingot-mountains growing dim when one cries and flaring up when one sings
With calico-clouds fraying when one grieves and swaying when one smiles
Doesn’t the simplest decore of everything keep the immeasurable nature of everything?
I’ll ride levering the silver inlayed stirrups my cotoneaster whip in my hand
To the stage of my poetry - the flower-covered green mound
To the sky where vultures and eagles cool their wings flapping, forcefully
Somewhere over the roof of the auditorium – where it is so blue!
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