The Blue Yurt /From Bai Juyi/ Poem by Oleg Vorobyov

The wool shorn of thousand sheep,
Ten scores rings forged to equip
The round dome made of osiers,
Can't you find home finer, cozier!
In the Northern blue auroral
Used to set up yurt a warrior.
Now like azure haze,
He's brought yurt to South amaze.
Yurt can't be by gale suppressed;
Hit by rain its tautens breast;
No niches, no corners,
Yurt can snuggle, yurt can warm us.
Having fled from ridge and steppe,
Yurt has come to my doorstep.
Moonlit, beautiful and vivid,
I can spend whole winter with it.
Felt walls out hoarfrost,
Bars it snow at its worst.
Sateen furs, yurt's cushioned wings,
Cover resonating strings.
Here a bard would sing cross-legged;
There a dancer would throw a leg.
Entering yurt prefer to hut,
Drunk I'd sleep on dry felt mat.
Burning hearth's vermillion flames
On the walls entwine in games;
Embers, within heat is hid,
Redolent of morn orchid.
Slowly above the dark veil dense,
Trails off smoke sacred thence;
Melts the frozen ink, and, oh! -
Verse like vernal cascade flows.
Garth, where there are orchids flock,
Won't entice from yurts the folks.
Since, who dwells in huts of rush,
Think mild winter even harsh.
Monk can be by yurt entrapped,
So be scholar when bankrupt.
I receive in yurt my guest,
To my kids I'll yurt behest.
Let a Prince have palace etched, -
To blue yurt it'll pass as wretch.
I won't trade my yurt to nobles
For their castle, save them troubles.