Olonkho. P. A. Oyunsky

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СКАЧАТЬ Like a horse on all fours,

       As soon as he made his first steps

       On his soft, bowed legs,

       He set out racing

       Across the famous alaas

       Of his Motherland

       From its eastern to its western side,

       Flew like a whirlwind

       From its northern to its southern side,

       Shifted like a shadow,

       As soon as he grew up,

       Having checked his appearance,

       He proclaimed:

       ‘I have become a botur,

       A warrior at last’.

       His roar was heard

       In the Upper World,

       His great voice quickly reached

       The realm of the Under World...

       When I am settled,

       When I begin my story,

       When I release my tongue,

       When I clear my throat,

       When all of you together

       Hear a shout: ‘Nhooh!’ ¹

       From the Upper World

       Through the hole in the blue skies,

       From the Under World

       Beneath your two feet,

       Let your mighty heart

       Full of veins

       Stay calm...

      ***

      Beyond ancient times,

      In the past, departed years,

      In the old days,

      In the far distant past

      That their songs could never be heard,

      That their successes could never be predicted,

      On the ninth tempestuous

      Eight-edged lower

      Shining layers

      Of a white, tumultuous sky

      With three revolving keys,

      With seven wandering reins,

      On top of a solid etugen,²

      A permanent precipice,

      On top of a tertugen –

      A stable, wide abyss,

      Of an imagined, spacious dwelling

      With strong, swirling winds,

      With seven deadly welts,

      With a ford as smooth as a bowstring,

      With a high range so rocky

      That when trodden on

      There would be no trace,

      With the shape so solid

      That when pressed

      It would not swing,

      In the full-ripe centre of the earth

      In the blessed Middle World.

      In a yellow, tender nest,

      In a sunny, rich liver,

      In a bright, solemn navel,

      In a golden, great belly,

      In a high, heaving bosom

      Of the eight-rimmed, eight-brimmed

      Primordial Motherland,

      Full of discord and discontent,

      On its protruding neck

      My white, summer, shining sun

      Rises blazingly up

      Like the glistening blade

      Of a huge batas,

      My white, glowing sun of winter

      Rises radiantly

      As if a small batas

      Taken out of its sheath and brandished around,

      With a wide, white dale

      Where ninety-nine

      Great fast rivers

      Merged loudly,

      With a famous alaas-valley

      Where eighty-eight

      Huge rivers

      Rushed rapidly,

      Where seventy-seven

      Deep, grassy, green valleys

      Stretched together far away,

      It became a shining centre of the Middle World.

      With raging blizzards

      The size of a three-year-old cow,

      With hurricane winds

      That would pick up boulders

      The size of a four-year-old ox,

      With white, loam dust

      Swirling up in the air,

      With СКАЧАТЬ