MONGOLIA

I

As a man, I am bound unto my last breath
to keep all land and children in sole protection;
it is a son's duty to uphold unprecedented formula that fit
those who are unfit, or at least impressively hungry.
Spot the moments of gratitude that follow behind my fine arms
and the smiles that stitch themselves upon the circular motion of my winding muscles,
as if the Gods themselves had blessed my saliva.

II

Part of man's consent is to allow the curiosity of seasonal change
to pass without notice, as if Tengri had shifted to one side
or the other with zealous retirement and blurred dedication.
There was a cyclical spinning-top picking up among the clouds
and a smoking climax shocked the skies of judgment and rationality.
All clarity sat in a puddle of gongan beats and percussive footsteps
awaiting the trials of the prowling bird who hovered down to meet a damp minority.

III

"Few are my sons that represent brutality where necessary and
humanity as if the Gods switched mouths". A hunger pain grew throughout
the space of a tabby and euphoric, brown-skinned quartet with snotty existences.
I simply bowed my head and offered flowers and parchment as if paternal vigilance
had been comically reversed. "Our father is he who can provide better future and scholarship" I swore and returned to a wooden stool with steadfast. "You're father is one who can provide
sons that are godly in their political achievements; tell me, khan, and even this name is loosely appreciated"-

IV

"Few spot the problem, dear mighty-man and patronage, fusion-maker and garden-bearer, organ donor and meat carver-"; What silence was followed by such untrue and unwise words
of a town's fool? Listen not to the stink of the gallows I thought to myself, upon witnessing the eyes of a sleepy deity. We were told how amusement was not an act of courtesy, reminded of our status within Mongolian expectation.
Eventually, time took its toll
and man's father left gloating and danced beyond the starry pole.

V

A great terror wept the streets as I waltzed through the huts of my village. The great council shook their
scalps in revenge and blew out the flaccid candle of hope.
We, I and my townsmen, had fell below levels
of satisfaction before,
and if anything, it was customary measure
to ensure that man and mate was of poor treasure.

*MONGOLIA (an epic poem by Timothy Douglas); Book ONE of SEVEN books, parts indicated by roman numerals, separated by sensationalized strains.