The Poet Mourns His Son

From E6.31, Ferdowsi Laments the Death of His Son. It illustrates E6.31.1–10:

E6.31.1
At sixty-five, why should my hand sustainThis weary toil over ancient kings in vain?
E6.31.2
Let me impress that lesson on my mind,And mourn the dear son who left me behind.
E6.31.3
My turn had come, and yet the youth has flown;I stay in sorrow, soulless and alone.
E6.31.4
I hasten, hoping I may overtakeMy son, and speak reproach for longing’s sake:
E6.31.5
“My turn it was to go, not yours, my son;Why leave me here, and my slow steps outrun?
E6.31.6
You shared my weary labors, page by page;Why leave your fellow traveler in his age?
E6.31.7
Did you find younger comrades on your way,And hurry on ahead without delay?”
E6.31.8
At thirty-seven, youth still crowned his headWhen life denied his wishes and he fled.
E6.31.9
He proved a harsh companion on the road;He turned in anger, leaving me my load.
E6.31.10
He went, but left his sorrows in my breast,My heart blood-filled, my weeping eyes oppressed.