This time he fell in the abyss on his horse, and the Sun fell with him
And his voice never reached us again,
Only a stone inscription remained.
Where was the army headed in a whirlwind,
The raging Saks and Hunnus.
From far ends of Asia they flew over to this end
Horsemen of the boundless Universe.
The whirlpool of stars within their reach,
Offspring of steppe winds and mountain winds.
Everything in this world is fleeting, all things pass
– the land was divided, the flocks and soul ripped away from me
In the emptiness of the steppe, luring far off fires burned,
As I rode impetuously at lightning speed, the reigns of destiny no longer in my hand,
Suddenly not realising: have I been pierced by light or the searing heat of the sword?
What far reaches… where would my tribe go now?
Where would it go, where to aim in darkness?
My small clan, that split off from the big tribe
Flung up in a moment like a spark off a horseshoe
The Sun falls into the wound of my heart
Maybe I didn’t know that this world’s colour is the colour of blood, like the sunset.
Now I release my soul to be
And my steed, closer than my soul,
I release him too. Be free.
About this poem
This poem, representing Kyrgyzstan, is part of The Written World – our collaboration with BBC radio to broadcast a poem from every single nation competing in London 2012.