Raised carefree on the banks

Of the Tatta Ebeh Khotun river,

With its peaceful dreamy dale,

With rare, delicate shrubs,

With lovely crossbill songbirds,

With its gentle folk, renowned for its singers,

Oyunsky, the young prodigy,

Descendant of shamans,

Sat down, enlivened by sudden inspiration,

Scribbling furiously, he roughed out:

‘The great hero Nurgun Botur the Swift

Who rides the fleet of foot black horse,

Born standing on the border

Of the clear, white sky…’

The legend of Olonkho

Thus told to the Sakha

Over the generations

As their favourite saga

Made up of thirty Olonkho pieces.

An Olonkhosut, a dear old man

Sitting cross-legged, hands holding his knees,

Improvises his Olonkho so eloquently,

Recounting the creation of the Universe,

How it prospered and flourished,

As if embroidering a golden-yellow canvas

With ornate colourful words.

Soon, the wandering eyes of the audience

Start glistening, imaginations run wild,

And the strong Toyon hearts

Of my dear Urankhai Sakha

Throb excitedly as they exclaim ‘Noh!’

In surprise and admiration

Encouraging the narration…