I proclaim myself a little khatun

[the culmination of a very long course of treatment of ambiguous effect: it appears to have deepened the affliction, but has also began the development of useful coping mechanisms.]

To conquer Asia:

you must begin soon, immediately,
a long time ago, when you were younger, young, unborn,
undreamt but by the Eternal Blue Sky,
but by Mother Earth,
who knew, who knows ––
when you begin, you must
remember
me ––
crushed between
pages like so many
unloved thistles,
larch-leaves,
grasses that once swayed.

This is true history.

The conquerer of Asia
(who was me) had
cat’s eyes,
a face that glowed,
a beautiful wife,
whom (by standard reckoning)
he did not deserve, but
Mother Earth,
who knew, who knows,
knew differently.
She dreamt me
different, bore me bloodied and
holding blood, Hers, mine to
adore and abandon,
mine to cherish and crush,
my history to write upon the Earth.

Given to me
a long time ago, willingly
tied in tendon and blood ––
taken from me
for too long,
my beloved,
my Bortei ––
and how she suffered,
and how I suffered,
forever crushed between pages.

These pages are not holy.
They remember
dead nature, the
shivering larch-leaves and
quaking steppe
beneath Soviet tank tread and,
once,
the hooves of Mongolian horses.

The tassel that hangs
at your resting-place
is horsehair, fine and soft
and ancient.
Lost to the hands of my people,
my sulde, my soul,
battle-banner and nation-flag
is your bookmark,
pressed between these pages where, for
moments at a time,
I am alive to you
who are not of my people.

Mother Earth,
forgive me,
for we do not speak of the dead.

And She will forgive,
and She has forgiven
for the blood I have shed on
Her flesh ––
she bore me bloodied and
holding blood,
and I have always been
different,
a mountain rising from this steppe,
conifer-clad,
cat’s eyes,
a face that glowed.

To conquer Asia
is to be forgiven ––
if only by your people,
who know your true history,
and by Mother Earth ––
and perhaps by a student
of the conquering trade
here or there.

When the conquerer dies
(and I am dead),
his people
and his students
will be forgiven for speaking
his name.

When Mother Earth gives you
a beautiful wife, whom
(by standard reckoning)
you do not deserve,
you must
remember
me,
my mistake,
the misstep that
crushed me
between pages.

Wives were stolen then,
and mine, beautiful Bortei,
was stolen, as if she were
only a woman, as if she were a
doll of blood and hair and not
another pair of cat’s eyes,
a face that glowed,
strong for me,
mine.

And wives were stolen then,
and had she been
only a woman, a doll of
blood and hair,
I would not have
called upon my brother in blood,
borrowed his loyal and fearful,
and taken her back
after too long,
my Bortei.

And he who came after,
my son, my Jochi, was
mine ––
understand,
Mother Earth has forgiven
the conquerer awash with
blood, but
men do not forgive so easily.
My other sons did not forgive so easily,
so awash with my blood,
so certain he was not.
And he was not.

But my son, my Jochi,
he was mine.
If he had come after me,
I would be more than
the shivering larch-leaves,
the unloved thistles,
the swaying grasses,
the absent sulde
crushed between pages,
and so would she,
my Bortei.

Ogodei of my blood,
Kublai of my blood,
they were not mine.
The empire they called mine
became theirs, slow and fat and starving and
broken, and was
not mine.

Student of mine,
hold your beloved close,
for you are crushed when she is crushed.
The conquerer and his wife
are the doe and the wolf,
and their union is
creation itself ––
and why do you
conquer if not to
create?

To conquer Asia
and to make of all people
your people,
you must not bask in some senseless
pleasure-dome.
The conquerer’s business
is motion, the swaying grass beneath
hooves of horses,
and the conquerer cannot be still.

The conquerer wages war
upon neither the people
nor the Earth, but upon
the walls that break roads,
the fools that build walls,
and the conquerer leaves roads
behind him,
and moves on,
and moves on.

When you move on
with roads behind
that flow with silk
and silver and your people, who were
not your people ––

When you move on
with Mother Earth beneath
who forgives you,
who breathes life through
dry grass and lost tombs and
into you ––

When you move on
with Eternal Blue Sky above
who remembers your voice
from the sacred mountain,
who watches you ––

When you move on
with sulde flickering before you,
ecstatic in spite of
the bloodshed and
the unspeakable,
you will understand:

Asia is worth conquering.

When you conquer Asia,
you must remember
me.

This is true history.