The Tengri Taghish

By Theodotus Young

Since the grandparents of mine immigrated to Sinkiang from China proper after WWII, my fate has been bonded with the land of magic. I was born and raised in Ürümqi. Thus, I've got such a privilege to explore and enjoy the flourishing culture that the city can possibly provide.

Buddhist temples, mosques and orthodox churches are c

• Language: English
• Publisher: EHGBooks
• Release date: Sep 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781647843496

Theodotus Young

暮春歌人 姓 杨 名 庚鑫 字 午焱 号 暮春歌人 公元一九九四年十二月二日出生于沙依巴克

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Preface

Since the grandparents of mine immigrated to Sinkiang from China proper after WWII, my fate has been bonded with the land of magic. I was born and raised in Ürümqi. Thus, I’ve got such a privilege to explore and enjoy the flourishing culture that the city can possibly provide.

Buddhist temples, mosques and orthodox churches are coexisting in the city, harmoniously. The dwellers here speak Uyghur, Kazakh, Mandarin, Tajik, Mongolian, Russian and many other different languages. And the landforms are also as variously as the people who live in here. The snowy peaks of Tengri Tagh (the mountains of heaven) are neighbouring the vast desert of Taklamakan, nurturing the forests of fir that’s almost identical to Schwarzwald, sheltering the green pastures from southern sandstorms.

I’ve grown up in a multicultural society, however, I was able to travel even further by the benefits of the thriving mass media, which provides the opportunities of the different art forms in Japan or in Scotland, dated in medieval or modern era. I’ve been surely taking advantage of the cyberspace, through space and time.

Even though the blessings I’ve got, there’s only one fatal problem that has risen. Exposed in the kaleidoscopic worlds of humanity, I’m disorientated by their beguiling lights. The identity of mine has faded, along with the meaning of the world that I’ve been living in. I’ve travelled a lot, during my college years, having been questioning myself about life. I’ve gathered them in this collection, trying to draw a sketch of myself, not only as a citizen of central Asia, but a wondering human of my generation, in the time of its own uniqueness.

Theodotus Young

1st November 2020

White Cloud

In a lazy afternoon,

When everything was sleepy,

Warm sunlight was casted on dusty windows,

Revealing the traces of lightning storms.

The songs of summery insects

Were silenced by the boredom of this town,

However, time endures.

Lying on my bed, closing

One of my eyes, I saw Morpheus.

He brought me the memories of nostalgia.

The continuous sound of kinetoscope

Was suffocating me gently, and

The past of mine that’s filled with endless regret

Was like silent films that has been playing

Over and over, inside of my head.

The nightmare was just a dream,

A rather real one, I’d say. I’m afraid

I won’t be able to wake up,

Ever again.

What can you possibly do,

When the world is vaporising

Into kaleidoscopic uncertainties.

So many colours were diluted

Within the atmosphere of inevitability,

And others are still waiting to be heard.

When the time has come,

I’ll tear off my skin, spitting

Out my blood onto stars.

Outside the window,

It has been seen that a white cloud

Was floating alone in the azure sky,

Carrying the dreams from faraway lands,

And delivering them towards

The blurry horizon of the unknown,

Where’s dwelled the dreams of life.

Inaccessible!

The crimson light of dusk reminds

Me the transience of time.

The long boring day is ending,

But tomorrow won’t be any different.

I had crushed my heart into dust,

Then scattered it into my dreams,

Thus, the desert of tears, there will be.

I pull off my oars, waiting for

The boat to carry me through the night.

I was promised a purpose,

But now, it’s too much to bear.

Simultaneously, I do wish for more,

More meaning for reality, perhaps.

My soul doesn’t belong to this place,

Thus, I’ll pray to the void,

Till Chronos demands the truth of mine.

O’ white cloud, you’re like a bird,

Flying freely upwards the heavens,

With neither worries nor sorrow.

Take me! Take me away,

While I’m still young and gay.

A Call

Do you remember the rain of London?

When we were young and reckless,

You’ve taken me to the bars, getting drunk,

And talking about the ambitions of ours.

Your fancy words disorientated my heart,

In the nights of blurry city lights.

I was falling in love, but you were not.

Do you remember the sunset of LA?

The diminishing glow of dusk

Casted eternity upon the orange orchards.

You’ve shown me around, climbing up

To Griffith Observatory, and