The eight-rimmed, eight-brimmed

Full of discord-discontent,

Our Primordial Motherland,

Was created-consecrated, they say…

So, we do our best to tell the story…

In ancient times

In warring, bloodthirsty times

Before the world changed,

Beyond the evil horizon

Of the awful earlier years,

When the Middle World

Was not yet known,

As the thirty-five tribes

Emerging from everywhere,

To become the front-faced,

Two-legged

Human beings

With an ability to foresee;

The people of the Under World

Born wearing worn-out, ragged fur coats,

With teeth as sharp as a knife

Descendants of the famous tribe

Of Arsan Dolai

And the famous old woman Ala Buhrai,

Not yet known as the thirty-six tribes

To the people with the reins on their backs

With foreseeing eyes;

The descendants of the Kun Aiyy family

The great old man, Ulutuyar Uluu Toyon,

Born in the upper, inaccessible sky,

And Khotun Kokhtuya with a shrill voice,

Not yet known as the thirty-nine tribes

To the people with the reins on their backs.

Tales about them were by no means on the tip of their sharp tongues.

The inhabited Middle World was created,

They say…

It is unknown if the smooth, white sky

Is held together by its edges;

It is unknown if it hangs on radiant ropes,

It is impossible to see

Where it begins at three shiny locks

Where the steps rise into the air,

It is impossible to see how it floats

Above the deathly nyuken etugen.

No wings can be seen

Which lift it into the air,

The axis cannot be seen

Which rotates the earth,

But a mournful song,

A sorrowful toyuk is heard.

The great cold ocean lies beneath this World,

The edge of the ocean cannot be seen,

The opposite side of the ocean

Cannot be seen.

The Middle World is washed

By the frightening waters

Of by the deadly Odun Baigal

The thunder rumbles menacingly,

The lightning flashes brightly,

It is surrounded by the salty ocean,

With stunning white clouds above;

At the bottom of the World

There lies the bitter evil ocean

With its horrible, and deadly roar.

The edge of the Middle World

Is covered with ice and hoarfrost,

Where an evil storm swirls and plays,

The red sand on the hills –

Flying, buzzing and whispering.