Birthday

These translations are from Google Translate Mongolian.

The choking of reins, holding them between each and every finger as that horse trampled across the inning-ways of the flowers and nature, hawkeye view surrounding the valley and below the houses with yurts surrounding, towers made of wooden beams and campfires billowing signals into the air of a ‘happy tuesday’. The tomboy’s hair flicked and scattered across her face, frontline and bouncing with solidarity as her lips tossed together, pushing outwards with an airy breath, “Aav.” The holy word for father as her eyes distantly looked over her shoulder, speaking to the burly one who with axe over his hips, detested femininity and with masculine toxin strutted his bare back and meatied body. His coarse, dark-brown eyebrows juxtaposed with concern to the stopping colt and his daughter, before his sullied gruff voice leaked from his chapped lips, “Chi yaaj zogsson yum be?” The blondes eyes watered from the dry sandiness of the air and her fathers low tone, and in her floral beckon she worded, “Lafaiyet dogolj baina.” Pushing her hands into the brownish mane of the colt, she hoisted seating and readjusted, swinging leg over the hilt and hearing the equine beasts panting as she pat flank and neck, sweat lolling from his face and teasing across his eyebridge. Flaring of the nostrils and careen of the head, her trusted steed gazingly wandered to her, right leg raised with a tense aggro, frog of the hoof cracked and shattered as well as the shoe tilted. Furrow of his brows, the bulky Qussrakon man implied, “Ömnö ni yaagaad üüniig anzaardaggüi baisan be?”

A frown and she pet away the distant strains of the colt’s mane, pleading case as she continued, “Bidniig gertee ergej irtel ter zügeer baikh bolov uu gej bodloo.” Grasping the hair again, the two communed with a distant relationship broken, eyebrows fixing and noses scrunching in their hearty language before with rein in hand, they led back downwards from the mountain whereupon a muscular mare lay wait in the prairie. Whinnies and frowning, ears jut and noses again tensing, the colt ruptured into a still lay at the down-end of the valley, short-cut tomboy reaching for the foot and prying with bare dirted fingers at the shoe of gold. Roughly she grunted and with her bare strength pulled it from the foot, colt jutting from it’s lay and beginning to stand again with a hit to the flank to get moving. A free spirit ran into the grasslands further up ahead, where it would join others in matrimony again.

She sat there at the table, holding her fingers in her lap as she twirled with them. With loose hair down to her shoulders, no longer tied upwards and face less messed to provide a feminine feature. A woman of black veil and navy blue hijab, elongated dress enough to define her as a widow, spoke to her. “Sabryeur, chi barag khool idsengüi.” Sabreur, a name contributing to the prowess and hidden lineage of herself, the tomboy shuffling in her seat underneath the dim lighting and midnight scribbling in the corner. Her father lingered, and in front of her a full plate of crumbs and breaded potatoes, fork picking about at them before to create a masterpiece of toddler novelty. Head peeking from disassociation, studying the face of the veiled maiden, she spoke coldly, “Bi tiim ch ikh ölsöögüi.” A shake of her head, clutching together empathy and the tears, the dessert sat in front of her laden with protein, a typical Qussrakon diet of dried fruits, bars, jerky and on special occasions a baked, built breaded potato platter. Rubbing a hand upon the mixed girl’s back, the comforting scarred woman told her: “Törsön ödriin mend…” An uncomfortable smile, then. Gruff voice again from the back, “Ta idekh kheregtei.” It was no concern, coming off as a demand, his brows furrowed as his scruffy face initiated over his shoulder from his papers, glasses squeezed on the rim of his nose. Her face dried of that red heat, putrefied by the cold gaze of her father as she bowed her head again to stare at the packed meal in front of herself. Picking up her fork with a shaken finger, she squeezed her shoulders into her chest and ducked into a form like an armadillo, raising it to her face and chewing into it.