The shapes of homesteads, like a hundred white sheep,
blench the summer pastures like a growth of mushrooms.
The heat of the setting sun smells stronger than the sheep
led out in the evening, throwing dust around.
In the evening we take Mr Dender's little daughter,
cracking whips over the glaciers,
like the harsh words heard spoken among officers,
dispersing the sheep like a fire set amid stones beneath a deel.
Looking over the lambs in the evening, like drawing stars,
their bare legs glinting in the chill like fine feathergrass.
A herd of sheep, round as the moon, like pressed cheese,
and the white lambs rushing onto the wild steppe.
blench the summer pastures like a growth of mushrooms.
The heat of the setting sun smells stronger than the sheep
led out in the evening, throwing dust around.
In the evening we take Mr Dender's little daughter,
cracking whips over the glaciers,
like the harsh words heard spoken among officers,
dispersing the sheep like a fire set amid stones beneath a deel.
Looking over the lambs in the evening, like drawing stars,
their bare legs glinting in the chill like fine feathergrass.
A herd of sheep, round as the moon, like pressed cheese,
and the white lambs rushing onto the wild steppe.
Danzangiin Nyamsüren (1949 - 2002) Mongolia
Translated by Simon Wickham-Smith
Source: The Best American Poetry
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