LITMIR.BIZ

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      Because of hunger,

      I am slowly dying

      Because I have eaten

      All the beetles and frogs…

      Oh, sweet baby in my hands,

      Oh, gurgling baby in my palms…

      Emine-tuomuium, emine-tuomuium!’

      As soon as she had finished her song

      And her sounds

      In the Under World, in the evil land,

      The lords of the Upper World,

      Honourable men of this world,

      Fathers of the Under World,

      The oldest men said:

      ‘It seems that there was born

      A great warrior

      Who could never be oppressed…

      His fortune-telling cradle

      Is not good either,

      He seems to be rather unlucky;

      He would disturb the sky for sure,

      He would unfasten its lock,

      He would destroy the Under World,

      He would cause alarm,

      He would shake and excite

      The Middle World for sure…

      He would rip the shiny locks rope

      Connecting the three Worlds,

      He would cause incalculable calamity…

      The oldest men used to say:

      Warrior Kulut the Best

      With evil thoughts and a bad temper,

      Khan Sabydal, the hero,

      Who would ruin skies and earth,

      Ehekh Kharbir, Erken the Hero,⁷⁷

      A three-year-old boy,

      Causing revenge and death,

      Would be born

      At the junction of centuries.

      Has that child been born already?!

      It must be him, none else…

      We should frustrate him, by any means!’

      After that they took counsel,

      Put their heads together

      And tied the child tightly

      With a fiery bewitching rope

      With ninety-nine knots

      To an eight-sided magic post,

      Which was on a four-layered

      Unsteady iron mountain,

      Which had no pillars

      In the layered white sky,

      Which was not fastened

      To the white clay of the earth.

      From the bottom of the Under World

      Early dew and dense fog came up,

      Then they put it under

      An invisible lock and key

      As big as a six-year-old stallion’s head

      Covered with red copper, they say…

      ‘If a great storm blows up

      From the Upper World,

      He will cause great troubles,

      If the cold blows heavily from the Under World,

      He will cause double disasters,

      If the fresh air blows

      From the side of the Middle World,

      It will distress and trouble life.’

      So they brought three deadly warriors

      And put them on three sides –

      To prevent the upper side

      From great tempests blowing up,

      To restrain the cold

      From the lower side,

      To screen the other side

      From misfortunes.

      These were three

      Clumsy death heroes

      To guard and protect…

      If, in the Upper World,

      A major problem erupts,

      If, in the Under World,

      A sudden commotion takes place,

      If, in the Middle World,

      A misfortune happens,

      Only then will Genghis Khan order,

      Will the Odun Khan decide,

      Will Jilga Toyon instruct

      These three warriors of death

      To stop the heroes

      Who shake the shiny locks

      Of the three Worlds,

      Increasing disasters.

      That was an edict of the great fiery court…

      The deities of the heavens

      Who had set up the Middle World

      With its rising sun

      And its trees falling down,

      Who had installed countless wealth,

      Happiness and immortal life,

      Settled in here

      Sakha Saaryn Toyon and Sabyia Baai Khotun⁷⁸

      From the tribe of Kun-Aiyy,

      With the reins on their backs,

      Who were relatives of Aiyy-Khan.

      Who were destined to create

      Three dear Sakha,

      Who were destined to give birth

      To four Sakha,

      Who were destined to multiply

      Dear Urankhai Sakha.

      If one walked towards the east,

      Where the low white sky

      As soft as a chamois cloth

      Hangs with its thrums⁷⁹ down,

      Where the edge of Mother Earth,

      Wet with rain, curves upwards

      Like a ski made from a solid tree,

      There is a wonderful land,

      Nine-brimmed, nine-rimmed,

      With wide, green fields,

      Knowing neither snow nor frost;

      Its trees never fade,

      Its sun always shines,

      Winter never comes,

      It is always summer here.

      If one looked

      At this wonderful land

      Covered with a blue haze,

      In its rich, wide spaciousness

      Full of joy and happiness,

      There are countless sandpipers,

      A lot

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