CP in Mongolia

Dear Readers, the following literary composition by Zava Damdin (b. 1976) is quite long and unfolds through a shifting succession of voices. I suggest approaching it slowly, thereby allowing its cadence* and perspective to emerge gradually.

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LISTEN! CONSIDER!

Do you think the birds are still chirping as if nothing had happened?

Not so! Not so!

They chirp because much has happened to them!

Unlike you humans, they do not make a fuss over every foolish, wayward thing!

“The morning sun has risen so beautifully,” they chirp.

“This afternoon, snow will fall,” they chirp.

“A traveller will come from afar,” they chirp.

They let it be known, “By evening the wind will settle.”

And they signal, “Tomorrow, early, something good will happen.”

* * *

But the great birds*, passing beyond the mountains and gazing far,

cry out in concern for the whole world.

“What is to become of humankind if it grows more deluded than this?

War and strife will bring about their own destruction!

What is to be done? What is to be done?

“Even without the smoke of gunpowder,

these human beings find even easier ways to destroy themselves,” they observe in astonishment.

“Well then!

You people, do you suppose that you will understand from birds what you did not understand when it was spoken by humans?” they laugh mockingly.

* * *

Even the city’s stray dogs are barking!

“What? What did you say?”

“This two-legged beast that does not even love its own children or descendants.

If it cannot even truly love its own offspring, it is hardly surprising that it should despise us.”

So they howl and cry out

Soon enough, even they may soon lose the power to bark.

* * *

“Even the sky-dogs* of the open steppe are howling!

What are they howling? What was that?”

“Though countless years have gone by, never have we seen our homeland sold off to foreigners and torn open in this way.

Its brutal men slaughter us with rapid-firing guns,

thinking to revive their spiritual fortune, even as they become the living dead.

We are the witnesses of this land!”

So they howl again and again,

then fall silent, jaws clenched, fangs bared.

They will not soon find

a worthy cause for which to to howl.

But they will keep their vow,

At some appointed time, they will again bear witness.

* * *

The few falcons* that once cried out in long, carrying calls have now almost fallen silent.

And yet they still cry out together!

“Having dishonoured the Bogd Gegeen and stooped to trade in his name in liquor, tobacco, and the like,

while we, who have become emblematic beings, are being cruelly trapped

and sold away to foreign lands as slaves!

As for us—what of it!

This home country is becoming ever more pitiable…”

So they cry out,

then, recalling the many of their kind already gone into bondage, they quietly begin to sing a few ancient songs in long, drawn-out falcon-calls.

* * *

Those driven off to slaughter — geldings, stallion-colts, pregnant mares, two-year-old fillies, sinewed young colts — all neigh in anguish:

“Since ancient times, we have been the cherished and beloved companions of the Mongol people.

In these times, the people who have become herders scarcely seem to care for us at all.

After all, even the emblem of this land bears our image.

It seems we have become nothing more than a mere symbol, poor things!

At this point,

our vitality and native resourcefulness have come to an end.

Even when seas of blood were spilled and mounds of bone were piled high,

our bones and blood were no less than those of human beings.

In another turning of the wheel of existence,* may we become the companions of a better kind of being!” — so they make their vow,

As tens of thousands of horses are sent away in a reddening flood.

* * *

Lammergeiers,* eagles, and vultures circle in the upper sky and speak:

“Seen from the heavens, humankind are the most foolish of all!

They alter the course of mountains, waters, plant life, and the natural world, poisoning vessel and vital essence* alike.

Ah, these two-footed beings, though endowed with mind and understanding, do not follow the way of the wise.

Neither beast, nor bird, nor even something in between — in truth, they have become living demons.

Leaving their fate to themselves, while we too share in that fate, what means is there by which their suffering might be lessened?”

So they speak, at a loss for any remedy, and remain there under the sky, barely able to stay aloft.

* * *

Were I to write of all the many wild creatures, beasts, and birds that have given voice and shown meaning,

The tip of my pen would grow blunt, and the span of the paper would prove far too small!

Besides, those with the letters and words to dig in and understand are exceedingly few, so perhaps there is no need.

If I were to speak, as I have done, what beasts, birds, and livestock have said, who would listen?

Yet, for those of clear understanding, I could not help but set it down as: Listen! Consider!

Spoken, out of necessity, by the human crow.*

* * *

Delgertsogt Mountain

Translated by Zava Damdin (b.1976) and C.Pleteshner.
English interpretation 23.03.2026 from the original Mongolian 21.03.2026.

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Translation is always an interpretation into another culture.

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СОНСТУГАЙ! ҮЗТҮГЭЙ!

(Original Mongolian)

Юу ч болоогүй юм шиг шувууд жиргэж байна гэж чи бодож байна уу?

Үгүй дээ! Үгүй!

Тэдэнд олон юм болсон болоод л жиргэж байна!

Харин хүмүүн та нар шиг элдэв мунхаг завхаг зүйл болоод шаагиж байгаа юм биш л дээ!

Өглөө наран сайхан мандлаа! гэж жиргэнэ,

Үдээс хойш цас орно! хэмээн жиргэнэ,

Холоос аянчин ирнэ шүү! хэмээн жиргэнэ,

Үдэш салхи тогтоно! хэмээн сануулна,

Маргааш эрт нэгэн сайхан зүйл болно! хэмээн дохиолно.

Харин том шувууд уулсыг хальж тольдоод,

Дэлхий дахинаа санаа зовинон гуагална.

Хүмүүн төрөлхийтэн үүнээс илүү мунхарвал яанам бэ? хэмээн гунина.

Дайн самуун өөрөө өөрсдийгөө мөхөөнө!

Яана даа! Яана! хэмээн гашуудна.

Дарийн утаагүй ч хүмүүн нүгүүд өөрсдийгөө илүү хялбархан мөхөөх аж хэмээн гайхна.

За, даа!

Хүмүүс та нар хүмүүн хэлээд ойлгоогүй юмыг шувууд хэлээд ойлгоно гэж үү? хэмээн хөхрөлдөнө.

Бүр хотын золбин ноход хуцаж байна!

Юу? Гээ ч!

Ирээдүй хойч хүүхдүүдээ хайрлах үгүй энэ хоёр хөлт араатан

Үр зулзгаа ч сайтар хайрлаж чадаагүй байж, биднийг адлах нь юу ч биш ажээ.

Хэмээгээд, уухилан орилж байна!

Тэд мөдхөн хуцаж чадахаа болих аж.

Хээр талын тэнгэрийн ноход ч бас ульж байна!

Юу гэж ульж байна? Гээ ч!

Олон түмэн он улиравч, ийнхүү эх нутгаа харьд зарж ухахуйг харсангүй!

Балмад эрчүүд нь биднийг хурдан буугаар хядаж,

Хийморио сэргээж байна хэмээн амьд үхдэл болжухуй аа!

Бид чинь энэ нутаг орны гэрч шүү!

Хэмээн хэдэнтээ улиад, дуугаа хураан, амаа хамхин араагаа зуун ярзайх аж.

Тэдэнд олигтойхон улих шалтгаан мөд олдохгүй биз!

Гэхдээ тэд хэлсэн амандаа хүрч аль нэгэн цаг дор гэрчилнэ буй за.

Цөөхөн хэдэн шонхор шуранхайлдаг байснаа бараг л больжухуй.

Гэвч шуугилдаж байна!

Эзэн Богдыгоо гутааж алдраар нь архи, тамхи тэргүүтэй арилжаа хийж гударчхаад,

Харин сүлдэт болсон биднийг харгис аргаар урхидаж,

Гадагш боол болгон зарж байна!

Бид ч яахав!

Энэ улс орон нэн хөөрхийлөлтэй болсоор…

Хэмээн шуугилдаад,

Боол болж одсон олонхоо дурсан нэгэн хэдэн эртний дуу нууцхан шуранхайлан дуулалдах аж!

Нядалгаанд туугдсан гуурст морь, азарган үрээ, хээлтэй гүү, шүдлэн байдас, шандаст даага тэргүүтэн янцгааруун;

Эртнээс бид монгол хүмүүний энхрий инаг нөхөр нь байлаа.

Энэ цагт малчин болсон хүмүүн бараг хэрэгсэх үгүй аж.

Уг нь бид энэ орны сүлдэн дээр нь ч байх л аж.

Бэлэг тэмдэг төдий юм биз дээ хөөрхий!

Энэ цаг хүрээд цог заль дуусгавар болжухуй.

Цусан далай, ясан овоо босох үед ч бидний яс, цус хүмүүнийхээс бага байсан буй за.

Өөр нэгэн орчил дор сайн төрөлхийтний нөхөр болсугай! хэмээн андгай тавиад

Үй түмэн адуу улай лугаа илгээгдчүхүй.

Ёл, бүргэд, тас тэдэн бээр дээрх огторгуй дор эргэлдэн өгүүлэлдрүүн;

Сансраас тольдвоос хамгийн мунхаг төрөлхийтэн нүгүүд

Уул ус, ургамал байгалийн голдиролыг өөрчлөн сав, шимийг хордуулжухуй.

Ай, энэ хоёр хөлт төрөлхийтэн нүгүүд оюун ухаан заяавч мэргэдийн ёсыг дагах үгүй байнам.

Адгуус ч бус, жигүүртэн ч бус, саармаг ч бус, жинхэнэ амилсан чөтгөр болжухуй.

Хувь заяаг нь өөрсдөд нь даатгаж, бид ч заяаг нь хуваалцаж, зовлонг нимгэлэх арга юун буй аа!

Хэмээлдэн арга барагдан огторгуй дор халин ядан байх аж.

Өөр олон олон ан гөрөөс, араатан жигүүртэн өгүүлэмж утга үзүүлсэн болгоныг бичвээс;

Үзгийн үзүүр мохож, цаасны цар багадмуй!

Бас ухаж ойлгох үг үсэгтэн нэн ховор тул хэрэггүй биз!

Араатан жигүүртэн, мал адгуусны өгүүлснийг би мэт өгүүлвээс хэн сонсох буй!

Гэвч оюун төгөлдөр нүгүүд Сонстугай! Үзтүгэй! хэмээн эрхгүй буулгав.

Үүнийг хүмүүний хон хэрээ бээр эрхгүй өгүүлэв

21.03.2026

Дэлгэрцогт Уул

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NOTES

The Mongolian СОНСТУГАЙ! ҮЗТҮГЭЙ! has been translated as “LISTEN! CONSIDER!”. Although үзтүгэй more literally suggests “look” or “see,” consider was chosen in order to convey, in a Buddhist context, not only the act of apprehending something, but of reflecting upon it inwardly and with care. The pairing thus aims to preserve both the exhortatory force of the original and its contemplative orientation.

“том шувууд” has been rendered here as “great birds” rather than simply “large birds.” Through a Mongolian nomadic horizon, birds are not only visible creatures within the landscape, but also beings whose flight, cry, and placement in sky and mountain space may be read for sign, warning, and orientation. In that sense, these birds are “great” not merely in size, but in altitude, range, and vantage: they pass over the mountains, look out across distance, and speak from a position of high witness. This nuance accords with Mongolian and Inner Asian traditions of reading birds as omen-bearing and meaning-bearing presences, as well as with broader pastoral understandings that link animals closely to sky, weather, and surrounding world-relations (Humphrey 2018; Fijn and Terbish 2021; Srba 2025).

“тэнгэрийн ноход” has been rendered as “sky-dogs” in order to preserve the literal force of the Mongolian, rather than resolving it too quickly into a single zoological equivalent. In Mongolian folk and nomadic usage, such naming can carry more than one layer at once: not only a dog-like being of the open land, but a creature marked by height, wildness, omen, and a relation to the upper world. The phrase therefore lets these howling beings remain suspended between the familiar and the untamed, which is important in this passage (Mendmaa 2024; Sampildendev 2004).

“шонхор” has been rendered as “falcons,” but in this passage the word carries more than a zoological reference. In a Mongolian horizon of thought shaped by close attention to animals, weather, distance, and sign, birds of prey are often understood through altitude, range, acuity, and far-seeing witness. Read in that light, the falcons here are not only birds, but high, watchful beings whose dwindling cry marks a thinning of warning and remembrance. The phrase “the few falcons” is therefore important. Within the poem, it has rhetorical force: it suggests that only a remnant remains to speak in this way. That nuance also sits uneasily but suggestively beside ornithological research from Mongolia, where the Saker falcon in particular appears both as a culturally valued bird and as a species under sustained pressure from mortality, trade, and broader conservation strain (Gombobaatar et al. 2004; Ganbold et al. 2017; Mainjargal 2022). In this line, then, “few” need not be read as a census term; rather, it conveys a sensed dwindling, giving the falcons’ continued cry the character of a remnant voice.

For this literary work, “the wheel of existence” renders “орчил” in a general Mongolian Gelug sense: the ongoing round of conditioned life, death, and rebirth. In that light, the horses’ vow expresses a wish not to leave existence altogether, but to be reborn within another turn of it in better company. The note, then, is not that Mongolian Gelug writing treats horses as a special doctrinal case, but that this literary work places their speech within a recognisably Mongolian Buddhist understanding of karmic continuity and future rebirth (Ujeed 2015; Chimedsengee 2009).

“ав, шим” is rendered as “vessel and vital essence” in order to keep the doubleness of the Mongolian. In Mongolian usage, “сав” can suggest the containing body, receptacle, or outer holding form, while “шим” points to what nourishes, sustains, or gives life from within. Recent Mongolian scholarship also treats “сав шим” as an established conceptual pair within older Mongolian metaphorical thought, rather than as two merely separate nouns. In this line, then, the phrase suggests damage both to the containing world and to the life-sustaining substance within it; “poisoning vessel and vital essence alike” was chosen to preserve that full reach in English.

In a Mongolian nomadic horizon, the “crow” or raven is a watchful, rough-edged, carrion-near bird of intelligence, endurance, and sign; Mongolian scholarship has also noted the old association of the crow with quick-wittedness and courage in Inner Asian mythic thought (Jila 2006). Read within a Mongolian Buddhist literary setting, the author’s self-naming as a human “crow” therefore suggests not nobility, but an ordinary, persisting witness — one who remains near what others would rather not see, and so speaks from necessity rather than prestige (Jila 2006; Ujeed 2015).

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“FORMAL” LITERARY CLASSIFICATION

In terms of formal classification, we could describe the above narrative as a Mongolian doha in the sense of a verse composition shaped by reflection, admonition*, and utterance. In the Mongolian Buddhist literary world, such writing readily moves between poetic speech, moral address, observation, and contemplative reflection (Bawden 2003; Heissig 1972). What is especially striking here is that Zava Rinpoche’s doha does not proceed through a single speaker, but through a succession of voices: small birds, large birds, stray dogs, steppe dogs, falcons, horses, and the birds of the upper sky all speak in turn, while a final human voice gathers and records what has been heard. The poem thus unfolds through layered witness rather than through a single lyric “I.” I have therefore chosen the opening words “LISTEN! CONSIDER!” as the translated-into-English title, since they frame the poem’s whole way of proceeding: to listen, to consider, and to receive what these many voices disclose.

However, the generic label of “doha” remains provisional. In the stricter Indo-Tibetan history of the term, a doha is usually understood as a song-text of realisation, often relatively concentrated in form, associated with siddha traditions, and transmitted through processes of compilation, commentary, and re-use rather than simply as an open-ended modern poem (Schott 2023; Rheingans and Schott 2025). Seen from the Mongolian side, matters become even less tidy. Mongolian Buddhist writing has long moved across broad and overlapping literary fields: verse, didactic writing, songs, liturgical compositions, manuals, aphoristic* materials, and other mixed vernacular forms. Scholarship on Mongolian-language Buddhism likewise shows repeated crossings between local song practice, folk-literary patterning, and Buddhist instruction, rather than sharply sealed genre boundaries (Sagaster 2007; Ujeed 2015; Ujeed 2020).

From my perspective, Zava Rinpoche’s original text stands precisely in this unsettled categorical space. It can be approached under the sign of doha because it begins in exhortation, proceeds through moral and contemplative address, and asks to be received as utterance rather than merely as description. Yet formally it departs from what many readers would expect a doha to be. It is unusually long; it does not unfold through a single speaker or a compact first-person realisation; and it is built instead from a succession of non-human voices — small birds, large birds, dogs, falcons, horses, vultures, eagles, and others — before arriving at a final human voice who presents himself less as sole authorial speaker than as one who has heard and set these utterances down. In that respect, the work comes closer to a multi-voiced didactic poem, or to a poem of layered witness, than to a classical doha in any narrow formal sense.

It may therefore be best to say that this work does not fit comfortably within current local academician or globalised literary categorisation, at least not if one expects a single inherited label to describe it fully. Personally, I am quite comfortable with this assessment. Rather than forcing this composition into a fixed categorical class, I would argue that the relevant categories are emergent, formed out of prior developments and inherited continuities rather than projected from an innovative future. However, I do retain “doha” in a broad, respectful and historically resonant sense, while understanding the above narrative itself more precisely as a contemporary Mongolian multi-voiced didactic-reflective composition.* That articulation preserves the work’s Buddhist literary horizon without obscuring its formal singularity.

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TRANSLATION METHOD

Because the original literary composition is extended, multi-vocal, and not securely contained within a single inherited genre, this version attends more closely to the semantic, tonal, and rhetorical detail of each line, rather than its more compressed lyrical form, as in an earlier translation. A more concise literary approach has its own considerable strengths: it can clarify movement, heighten tonal unity, and bring forward the poem’s immediacy as verse. In a long composition such as this, a more compressed rendering, for an English-reading audience not necessarily familiar with Mongolian literary forms, could risk flattening the shifts of voice, reducing the accumulative structure of witness, and smoothing away some of its didactic and reflective force. For that reason, the approach came to favour textual density over lyric compression, so that the work’s layered utterance, changes in address, and unfolding movement of perception might remain more legible in English in their detail.

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If there are any errors of judgement in this article, they are of my own making.

For these, I humbly apologise.

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GLOSSARY

Admonition: a serious and cautionary mode of address that speaks not only to describe, but to warn, correct, and call the listener to awareness. In this doha, admonition appears through the voices of living beings whose speech carries concern, reproof, and forewarning.

Aphoristic materials: short, self-contained sayings or statements that condense reflection, counsel, or observation into a concise verbal form.

Cadence: the felt movement of the verse as it sounds and proceeds — its pace, turn, and pattern of utterance, through which meaning gathers as much by rhythm as by statement.

Lammergeier: a large mountain-dwelling bird of prey, also known as the bearded vulture (Gypaetus barbatus), associated with high cliffs, wide aerial range, and the upper reaches of the sky.

Layered witness: a mode of testimony in which meaning emerges through the accumulation of different voices, each bearing witness from its own position. The closest ethnographic/atnthropological term (to this literary term) is probably polyvocality or multivocality: the presence of multiple distinct voices or perspectives within a single account, through which meaning is produced collectively rather than by a single speaker.

Multi-voiced didactic-reflective composition: a work in which instruction and reflection unfold through a succession of different speaking voices rather than through a single speaker.

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CP in Mongolia

Catherine Pleteshner, Independent Scholar and Musician

Mongolian Poetry 33: Listen! Consider!