Früher war ich auch einmal Ranglistenspieler, aber dann habe ich einen Pfeil ins Knie bekommen.  

The stories of my people soar with horses,
With wings they reach the golden sun.
The wind riffs through their untrimmed manes,
And, down the skyroad of Khormast,
They return to the lake like migrating birds,
According to the customs of the golden earth.

The poems of the elders soar with horses,
With wings they reach the vibrant stars.
From the herds of letters formed within the month,
We have taken these migrating steeds.
And, from the hitching posts of our poets’ horses,
We have taken off for distant roads.

My horse, fly high, oh my horse,
Fly high, into the worlds of my desire.
From our wise elders’ heights of brilliance,
I offer my song to the spacious earth.
My horse, fly high, oh my horse,
Fly high, into the worlds of my desire.

Von Ochirkhuu (1943-2001), übersetzt von Simon Wickham-Smith