Time comes flying, flying in
Time leaves flying, flying off

In my mindless wandering, time comes flying in
Babying the brown steppe, Mother Earth engorges
Suckling the rain sap, the grassroot satiates
Threading the cloud crack, the early bird assembles
Crossing the horse loom, the mountain disorients
The breath of a warm hour slides into my collar
Holding golden sun thread, the foothill embroiders
Chased by the laws of nature, time leaves flying off
Through the veil of clouds, the moon comes diffusing out
Then gathers itself, bashfully, in the water
The discharged soldier approaches his lover
As the white stallion freely gallops, time comes flying in
Stepping on the tuft white light of this rich night,
The notes of the sweet song render together
Every living being stills to celebrate the lovers 
Soon spreading wedding invites through the borough, time leaves flying off

Amidst a grassy mist, a lone stone stela 
Stands sleepily, whipped in the wind 
What has the stone heart beat for?
Searching the root of this puzzle, time comes flying in
Without rest, the eye of the sacred golden script 
Strings each moment into its mala beads 
Befriending us to past masters
And carrying us to our successors, time leaves flying off

Time comes flying, flying in
Time leaves flying, flying off

In my mindless wandering, time comes flying in
The blue haze rises with the smell of the horse horde
Intoxicated by flower nectar, butterflies chase one another
The white naped cranes perform their destined dance
Berries on the mountain beyond grow like scattered stars
When the white horse playfully tumbles, rolling, it rises up red
There is no appetite large enough for this abundance
Finding the bounty inexhaustible, time leaves flying off  

The children play percussion on the river stones
As the mallet strikes the stone, the four seasons unfold 
For it has listened and absorbed the song of millennia
Following the melody, time comes flying in

Along the ridges of the deep purple mountains on a peaceful evening
Golden swallows arise among the high fliers
To chase the legend that brought the fire of happiness
Remembering our ancestors with reverence, time leaves flying off

Ancient worlds run in our collective history
On the glowing screens, spruce young grandfathers smile
Distant generations face one another in greeting
Reflecting yesterday in today’s mirror, time leaves flying off

Time comes flying, flying in
Time leaves flying, flying off

In my mindless wandering, time comes flying in
When stars grow drowsy, the white frost falls
The silver glisten of a fox fur gets caught in my lenses
Bathed in the sun’s golden distillation, the fluttering grains wave
The two fledglings who summered by the salt marsh have grown feathers
And soar to the chest of the sky matching the pace of its flock
Drawing back the blue curtains of the misty sky 
Departing with the migrating birds, time leaves flying off

The sparrows twitter praising the morning rays
While fragments of sunlight float upon the spring water
The receiver reaches for the rhythmic pulse of a mother and child
Listening for the replying beats, time comes flying in
Birds cry out for their young, stirring the heart with sorrow
As the swarming, bustling flocks abandon the icy surface of the waters
The wheel of time turns, bringing ache to the heart
While I look, with regret, upon my aging mother, time leaves flying off

Beneath the wings of time that soar above
The chronicles of the passing world grow faint
The forefathers’ sleeping ground thickens by a finger’s breadth
In the tune of frost settling on grass tips, time comes flying in
Pillowing the departing time, thick fog descends
The silver tipped grass sway, blending wave upon wave
Clinging to and lingering in the taste of happiness, the world grows insatiable
Carelessly, taking a year away, time leaves flying off

Time comes flying, flying in
Time leaves flying, flying off

In my mindless wandering, time comes flying in
On the bottomless blue horizon, the sun’s eyelids are frosted
The edge of biting cold falters against the hat fur
Longing for its winged residents, the sky feels empty
As moonlight polishes and buffs the silver steppe,
Lanterns of ice glisten upon the fences, measuring the mountain chill
Observing the Orion’s Belt as it droops from the heavens
The earth’s satellite blinks and recedes while time leaves flying off

The warm glow rising from the winter camp freezes in the sky
As the corner of the felt roof flap turn, pointing the needle to the night
To the kids nestled in their mother’s tunics, listening to stories,
With the words “Once upon a time…” time comes flying in
Horses neigh and the echoes relay them between mountains
Soundless noise is absorbed and melts into each snowflake
The spine of the universe unwinds in all four directions
With the words “happily ever after,” time leaves flying off

Weaving a path with the rays of the sun and beams of the moon
Threading together the laws of flowering, blooming, withering and aging
Because everything in existence harmonizes for your sake
Urging to create and achieve dreams, time comes flying in
Bearing the years to be given, reclaiming the years turning to dust
Time demands back the blessings and bounty with persistence
To witness the truth of today’s actions
And to attest to the coming centuries, time leaves flying off

Time comes flying, flying in
Time leaves flying, flying off

​Translated From Mongolian by Nyamdash Amarbal

When the moon rises over an old temple,
its fleeting rays gild the ancient finials.
The wind grieves across the holes of the bamboo flute,
brings the sadness of distance back to the heart.

…When I awoke in the light of dawn, the wind was stronger and the air cracked cold and moist. The rain was far away, and the sky was clear. There was a light in the eastern sky. At that moment, there was a strange sound, as though somewhere in the temple a bell was ringing. I had never heard that kind of sound before.  I shuddered and woke up and looked around, but all was silent. The sound came again on the whistling wind. A strangely tuneless sound. After daybreak, I waded through the grasses and vegetation of the temple and heard, under the roof, the sound of a single, orphaned bell, as though quietly ringing sadness, and then fading to peace, as though collecting sounds.

I the sadness of the shadows of the world,
there is surely a light, a candle of the mind.

After I had come back from Civitella, we were Facebook friends. I was looking once at a picture which Felipe had posted of his study at home, and on the wall next to his piano he had hung my two calligraphies - “music” and “fire and water” - in elegant frames. Everything had been incomplete. Through the beneficence of the electronic network, I read some fascinating comments about my Mongol script. There was a continual flow of news about Felipe's east-coast tour of America with Claire Chase, and there was news of the performance of the piece which he had dedicated to me, “Meditation and Calligraphy.”

G.Mend-Ooyo's new novel, The Holy One, tells the story of the nineteenth century poet, educator and spiritual teacher, the Noyon Hutagt Danzanravjaa (1803-1856), and of his realisation of, and how he expressed, the secret wisdom in the teaching and practise of the historical Buddha and his descendents.
The novel also deals with the extremely difficult period during the late 1930s when, with the Mongol government persecuting monastics and intellectuals, the man who was in charge of protecting Danzanravjaa's memory and his cultural and material possessions, O.Tüdev, sought to protect this heritage against its destruction by the state.
The Holy One also reveals how Danzanravjaa's life speaks to Mongol intellectual culture and the nomadic tradition of the Gobi area in which he lived, and how this tradition is an expression of the land and the environment in which he lived.

This desert we speak of is a highly secretive place. The wisdom of antiquity cannot outsmart it. This desert we speak of, though we see it, its yellowed borderlands are unknown, it is a sky blue world of a myriad unseen riddles. In the silence beyond, there is melody.
An old man in a tattered red deel, riding an old yellow camel with crossed humps, was crossing this oceanic desert, heading westwards. The camel loped along beyond the light blue hills, which showed amid the blue haze of morning. Some unknown song played away in the old man's mind. “Thirty-three deserts there are, but only three have I crossed..." - that was where the melody came from. And as the yellow camel with crossed humps crossed through the red saltwort of the vast desert, pulled by the wind, the grasses and the bushes whispered and rustled.
The old man tended always to be in a hurry. Today he was in a particular hurry. The sand grouses flew up here and there. Otherwise not a sound. He had no chance to whip the old yellow camel's sturdy sinews, nor to consider his own almost eighty years. The old man's dark, wrinkled face, his gnarled and cracked hands, were like the sandy folds of the desert, like the wounds in the hills. This desert we speak of has brought forth, over the course of time, animals and humans and rocks, all in their proper colors and forms.

Fire swords conquer enemies
Fine brushes win hearts.
My blade has let history be,
Instead I have seized my brush.

During our time as students in the 1970s, our close group of friends created the Gal group based around our common interest in poetry, and it is true that we, with our youthful desires, would come to create an era in the history of Mongolian literature. We first made friends in class, during 1974 and 1975, and on 8 November 1977, we initiated the secret literary group Gal. The social system at that time meant that we had to keep ourselves hidden, away from the legal framework regarding the establishment of groups. About the establishment of Gal, Ü.Hürelbaatar has written a great deal. While everything was overturned during the 1990s, the members of Gal remained loyal to one another, and so we have reached the present day through generously dedicating the valuable time of our lives to one another in friendship. We lack for nothing.  But there remains a wonderful story of how we focused together on the great work of literature. When we meet with our readers, they are interested in what Gal is, who are its members, and so I would say a few words about how those young men of literature flourished. These were the flames of the fire, the flames of Gal.