The Center for Central Asian Literatures in Translation

THIS IS HOW THE STORY GOES

The morning sun rose, it spread out as though it was wearing ten-league boots, it cast patterns around the door of the ger.  I sat amid such good fortune drinking tea on a quilted matress, watching my homeland with great interest.  A magpie kept hopping backwards and forwards between the horns of an old spotted cow which lay there mumbling, disinterested in the world beyond.  The sheep rose up around the tents and stretched.  A pair of cranes flew over the edge of the encampment, their droppings fell and bounced upon the earth.  A young, darkcolored kid grew interested and came along inquisitively with pointed ears, it was sweet how it kept its distance.  A brown bird came to rest upon the tent roof, he looked down into the ger, his neck swelled and, with a bump, he flew down inside and as he struggled the flaps of the tent flew up.

An old man with a white beard sits at the base of a fruit tree, and the wild animals and the birds which ranged about him were joyful upon the earth and at peace with the local guardian.  This was how the neighborhood looked.

The Buddha looked upon the local guardian, the Lord of the Herds, and marvelled at his great love for the beasts under threat.  How the learned elders had talked about this came galloping into my heart, I felt great love for the swallows and it was as though I was joined to their wings as they flew.  I imagined, later on, how the elders had spilled out to the south, the slopes of the hills fluffy like the beard of a white camel, the birds and animals surrounding them.  And here I am, by the town stupa, the smell of wild leek intoxicating my feeble and cosseted body, it burns my mind, there's a melody galloping in like the tuned strings of a fiddle, the swallows on the steppes come in the vanguard to meet me.  And the swallows have brought me the fire of joy!  And the swallows have brought to my homeland the waters which I gulp down!  And the swallows bear upon their wings the best of stories, telling of the strongest wishes of ancient peoples.\

THE SWALLOWS

Returning from afar, swallows in flocks
Embrace the tales of the gentle, tranquil steppe.
The waters of eternity were spilt into the yellow steppe's palms,
And, ever since, these little birds have dared not leave.

Once, out riding with my father many years ago,
There were swallows flying over the lonely hills.
Returning from the distant time,
They are perhaps still seeking their elixir.

I didn't understand my father's story then.
I saw a swallow pass away, though
It had found the water of eternity.
I grieved it hadn't drunk.

My father shared the cream of stories,
Eternal and prophetic. And once,
I promised that, before the swallows did,
I'd find and offer him the waters of eternity.

In this brief world, promises are not always fulfilled.
My father's gone now, his son's not found the waters of eternity.
The swallows circle overhead,
Looking to source these everlasting waters.

To my own son, who'll gain his father's hearth and home,
I'll tell the tale of the swallows.
But, life is not eternal, I'll be gone,
I'll leave the swallows' tale to my children.

The story's over. The waters of eternity are still not found,
But they'll be found eventually.
And what the waters of eternity reveal, please share
With these my story's swallows, pursuing their joys over the steppe.

And so it happened that the swallows came in to meet me, to hang about and pester me, and then they flew onwards, towards the animals on the wild and desolate plains. 

Sometimes, as the swallows flew in circles around me, at that moment I imagined a thought-noose spinning through cycles of stories.  Why do the swallows settle upon horsemen, as they jog along in thought?