The Center for Central Asian Literatures in Translation

A MEMORY

USING WORDS TO DEAL WITH INSOLENCE

People in our region used to talk about a very eloquent elder called Tsend.  I enjoyed listening to him speak.  But certain young men in our region made fun of him by twisting his naïve words.

One time, he was praising his own stallion, an excellent horse with a long mane.  "You've seen him", he said, but although they had seen him, they said that they hadn't.  He didn't ignore what they were saying, but took notice of them and said,

"Once I went to the horse market and got a wild stallion, which I saddled up and rode home.  A couple of birds flew past, brushing against his face.  He was surprised and, as he powered forward, I stood up in the saddle.  But the two birds kept on at him, the horse looked right and left in surprise, had the birds laid their eggs in his mane...?"

The young men roared with laughter.  The man looked round at them, he said,

"But you never saw my wild stallion with his fine mane, did you?"

In truth, our people learnt imagination from these words.  The fabled wingèd horse, flying among the clouds, the unequalled heros who have perfected human wisdom, the beautiful and gossamer lovely dakinis, all of these appear to the mind out of the words of stories into the darkness of night.

These words of mine excite me and I cry out in rhythm and melody.  The horse I'm riding steps clipclop forward, my sadness twists and falters, my desires weaken and silently lock, my mind awakens and my fondness for things collapses, with you I go through the narrow defile of our own problems and across the flat steppes.

We raise up buildings with bricks, we create windows with glass, we boil water for tea, and with words we make all these things.  But though we can level off the bricks which are jutting out, we cannot level out the words we have spoken out of turn.  And though this might be true, we do not resist the gleaming words which come out of our mouths, we let them go their own ways, like a wind across the wilderness.

So, whatever has been promised and then delivered, that is what we diligently read.  And this is my prayer, that my eloquence might remain!

The clever words of Tsogt taiji, many centuries ago,
Are marked in the stones of the wild steppe, in the Mongol heart.
Song breaks through, boiling over in ecstasy,
Heard now from the time beyond.

The earth is dried out in the hard times of drought,
And Gelegbalsan, the poet of the Gobi, feels distressed.
With words he summons perfect power and strength,
Recites a rain of poems from a cloudless sky.

The first rains stream down, wishes are fulfilled,
The Gobi is cheered and the drought is broken.
The creative eloquence of the Mongolian people
Lies in the richness of our tongue of topaz.

Oh, that such great power of our human language
Is tipped upon the poisoned arrows of a poisonous mind.
On this day, wild words like wayward arrows
Have not been fired into the heart of Natsagdorj.

Loyalty cuts through the disloyal heart,
And, in this land, love shears through the loveless soul.
Destiny is foresaken - where are my poor brothers?
Let us all tell about our true and perfect tongue.

It has flown men of action into the skies of fame, and
It has slandered to the ends of the earth those who dwell in tents.
This language of mine, which purifies corruption and filth!
This language of mine, which shines clear amidst the darkness!

Our voices call out through the modern world,
We hurl words around like balls of castiron.
The high mountains and the low hills absorb them, and
We hear as ancient music what we've said today.

Oh, my strong Mongolian tongue, shining like a diamond,
The melodies, the words taking form in my mouth, and
My golden oath is sworn before my mother tongue!
My steel blade, shot through with truth, bears witness to the power!

This steed ranges farthest afield, away from destiny.
Never will its rider, my tongue of ancient melody, dismount.
I drop to earth from my exhausted horse, but
How to drop to earth from my spoken words?

My topaz mirror of purity, of vision and of thought,
Reflects the light of truth from every word.
This language of mine, heard with its hundred gifts!
Oh SPEAK THESE WORDS OF MINE beyond the centuries!

Clumps of white clouds tumble and fade, right there in the blue sky and, as though realising its form in limitless thought, the melody of the white conch sings out in the great activity of creation....

...the path of thought is vague,
the ways of books are clear...

...light and shadow could be seen everywhere. Black and white quarrelled together. Heat and cold clashed. Good and bad struggled against each other. Chaos ensued. Theft and discord took up residence in the shadows and stalked towards the light. They quarrelled with the goodness of the light. Here and there there were brightly-colored shapes. Then the people of light grew bold and determined and gathered all the light from their bodies into a great sphere, and this they raised up into the sky, and it was the burning sun. The people trusted that the light shone upon all things and from the earth they replenished their vitality, and there was death and there was birth, there was arising and there was dissolving....

...the ways of books are vague,
the path of thought is clear...