Third Ode to Grass
Ochirbatyn Dashbalbar
translated by Jessica Madison Pískatá
I, the grass, am alive
Flexing in the west wind
With each puff gently swaying
I, not yellowing, will grow up under the snow.
The grass is not affected by
The steppe horse’s hoof
And the grass is not stomped down by
The hard sole of someone’s boot…
Autumn’s wildfire didn’t lick me with its red tongue
It didn’t make ash of my body or the smell of singed fur
When even oak trees fall to the hot eastern wind
The grass is left behind, the weakness of its infant body fastened to the earth.
Despite yellowing at the tips each autumn
The grass will sprout in spring from green roots…
…I am a green mattress for the living
I am also a shawl for the disappeared
I don’t need anything.
The light of the sun is my god.
There are many tribes of grass
We will cover the wild world and make a clamor
When you people die out
Only I, the blue grass, will be your memorial site
As I am under your feet
I will clamor and ripple above your head.
I will keep your lifetime’s sadness
Your precious spirit will be consumed into the grass
gently blowing
People, you are grass!
You and I share one umbilical cord!
Even when you depart from life, you are kin with me
Even when you disappear, you are still kin with me
As long as there is this world, you and I will never separate
We will grow braided into each other forever…
Though grass doesn’t speak with words, silently
It will blow and nod in agreement with you
I understand its unknown secret beyond tongues
It doesn’t like empty chatter
It seems it is grateful
For under the stars, the grass grows silently.
Reputations will vanish
O, only grass will be left behind
Animals and people pass away
O, only grass will grow.
Ochirbatyn Dashbalbar (1957-1999) was born in the former Mongolian People’s Republic. He is one of the most celebrated poets in contemporary Mongolian literature. Read more.
The poems from “Ode to Grass” are abridged versions, whose full texts can be found in the magazine Sapiens.