Yesterday was the fourteenth day of Tsagaan Sar (Mongolian Lunar New Year). It was also a commemorative day, marking the passing into nirvana of Zanabazar (1635–1723)—revered as the Öndör Gegeen and the Khalkha Bogd Jebtsundamba Khutugtu. For many Mongolians, he represents a founding spiritual and cultural figure—an embodiment of Buddhist learning, artistic brilliance, and enduring national heritage. For generations, all the great monastic centres and temples of Mongolia, along with households and government offices alike, have held this day in deep honour—offering butter lamps, making offerings, circumambulating the monastery, listening attentively to the chanting of mani prayers, and joining in, rejoicing with sincere faith and devotion [ZDR 2026.03.03]. Yesterday, in keeping with the practice of honouring lineage elders, I also paid homage to Mongolian Guru Deva Rinpoche, the incarnation of the great Indian sage Mahasiddha Bundasiri, who passed into nirvana on 7 April 2009 and was cremated on 13 April 2009.
As I lit candles and recited mani prayers, images of what was happening elsewhere—beyond Mongolia—kept pressing in. I found myself thinking of how many more people were being displaced from the ordinary rhythms of home, from its comings and goings, and from that sense of belonging, wherever “home” happens to be. From time to time, I also listened to Mongolian music while sketching out ideas for my next articles, and during quieter moments I kept returning to the Mongolian song “Зүүдэн бороо” (Dream Rain). In hindsight, the voice of the song echoes the day’s shifting, subtle moods.
_________________________________
_________________________________
NOTES
“Зүүдэн бороо” (Dream Rain)
Lyrics: B. Lkhagvasüren (People’s Writer of Mongolia) [Үг. Б.Лхагвасүрэн АУЗ]
Music: Magsarjav (Merited Artist of Mongolia) [Ая. Магсаржав МУГЖ]
For my Mongolian readers, this is a well-known song, so no explanation is necessary. For other readers, the lyrical ideas unfold something like this: A bird arrives and calls by a dark pool; the voice of the song (he, she, they) longs for the day they can simply sit and look into their beloved’s dark eyes. As the new moon rises and waxes towards fullness, longing turns, as if shaped by causes and conditions. In sleep, “dream rain” falls, hinting at tears and the ache of separation, leaving a pillow soaked through, and an empty home. The voice imagines the familiar ger (yurt) and toono (the ger’s roof ring) they used to raise with care, and asks: when will the beloved be there again, sitting quietly at home? This well-received, nuanced vocal interpretation adds a personal layer of feelings to these themes.
The song isn’t about the current social upheaval, but it holds something closely related: the emotional weather of separation—the longing for return, and the ache of grief and loss that settles in when home is at a distance. I’m sharing the song here not out of sympathy, but as a small gesture of empathy for those caught up in recent events—directly, or by proximity.
Yesterday, as I lit candles, I couldn’t help but send a tender thought or two to them. In my own practice, it seems entirely natural to steady the mind by resting attention on a butter lamp’s small, steady flame, letting its flicker gather the thoughts and incline the heart toward compassion.
I hear Dream Rain as a meditation on impermanence: like the bird’s call, the waxing moon, and the rain that comes in dreams, longing and grief arise, change, and fade away. More than a simple “someone did someone wrong and left” song, it’s a tender reflection on distance, longing, and the way loss—in this case personified as “the beloved”—unsettles and reshapes our idea of home. I think the visual image accompanying the lyrics and music supports this reading. Of course, there are other interpretations. So the question arises:
What does Dream Rain speak to, for you?
Please refer to the INDEX for other music and articles that may be of interest.
End of transcript.
© 2013-2026. CP in Mongolia. “Soundscape 15: Dream Rain” is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License. Music and documents linked from this page may be subject to other restrictions. Posted: 4 March 2026. Last updated: 4 March 2026.