Book C9Rostam and Shaghad

The tale of Esfandiyar has reached its end,As truthful tellers’ words to us descend.

Now Rostam’s death shall be my tale to tell,Drawn from the book, of how the hero fell.

There was an ancient man named Azad Sarv,Who lived with Ahmad, son of Sahl, in Marv.

He held a book of kings from days of old;His frame was cast within a hero’s mold.

His heart held eloquence, his mind held lore,His tongue preserved the tales of days before.

His line from Sahm, Nariman’s son, was drawn;He knew how Rostam fought and then was gone.

What I received from him I now rehearse,And weave it, word by word, into my verse.

If still I live within this fleeting stay,May soul and wisdom help me find the way.

I shall complete this book of ages past,And leave the world a story that will last.

In Mahmud Abul-Qasim’s name I write,The Shah whose crown and throne are filled with light.

Iran and Turan, Hind obey his hand;His farr makes earth like silk from Roman land.

He scatters treasure, generous in his ways;Through wisdom fills his coffers from his praise.

He is so mighty that in future yearsHis praise will live upon the lips of seers.

His wars, his gifts, his feasts, his hunts proclaimHis deeds; his justice fills the world with fame.

How blest are those who see his crown and might,His court and all his army in their sight.

My ears and feet have both begun to fail;Old age and want have left my body frail.

Ill fortune binds me fast; I must complainOf evil luck and years of bitter pain.

I praise him still, and still to God entreatFor our just Shah, the earth beneath his feet.

The people join with me in this acclaim,Save those whose faith and nature merit blame.

Since he sat on the throne, he barred the gateOf feud and bound the hand of evil hate.

He curbs the man whose pride has grown too great,Though it should spring from long-established state.

He grants his mercy to the wise who stayWithin the proper measure of their day.

I raise for him a monument on earth,Known while men live, a sign of lasting worth.

It is this tale of kings from elder days,Of mounted heroes and their ancient ways,

Of feast and battle, counsel, words that last,And many ancient deeds of ages past;

Of knowledge, faith, restraint, and counsel clear,And guidance to the world beyond us here.

Whatever in these tales may win his heartMay serve him now and useful lore impart.

No finer monument could mark his days,Or keep him company along his ways.

I hope in these, my days, to gain the goldOur Shah may grant me from his treasure’s hold,

That after death some sign of me may stand,Drawn from the treasure in our monarch’s hand.

To Sarv, who shone for Sahl Mahan at Marv,I turn again; the words of Azad Sarv.

Thus spoke the ancient sage of storied mind,A man whose speech left polished words behind.

Behind Zal’s curtains lived a serving maid,Who sang and on sweet strings her music played.

One day she bore a son so fair and bright,He scarcely differed from the moon in light.

In form and stature, Sahm seemed born anew;The noble house rejoiced as gladness grew.

From Kashmir and Kabul the sages came,Astrologers and chiefs of honored name.

They worshipped God and sought out knowledge, wiseIn Indian tables used to read the skies.

They reckoned all the heavens to exploreWhat that fair child might find in fate’s vast store.

The readers of the stars, in wonder caught,Looked at each other, troubled by their thought.

They spoke to Zal, the son of Sahm, and said,“O heir of those whose stars shone overhead,

We searched the heavens’ secrets, sphere by sphere;They hold no love for this young child so dear.

When this fair infant comes at last of age,And enters on the valiant warrior’s stage,

He will destroy the house of Sahm one day,And bring the line of Nariman’s decay.

Through him Sistan will ring with troubled cries,And in Iran great tumult will arise.

He will make bitter every person’s years,Then from this world he quickly disappears.”

Zal, son of Sahm, was stricken to the heart,And called on God, from whom all counsels start.

“O Judge of all, O Guide of humankind,Sustainer of the heavens, wise and kind,

My refuge, stay, and source along my way,You show the path that I must take each day.

You made the sky and stars; to you we raiseOur hopes of goodness through our coming days.

May joy and rest and goodness be our share.”He named him Shaghad as he closed his prayer.

His mother reared the child on milk; he grewQuick-witted, eloquent, and fair to view.

When he grew strong, Zal sent him on his wayTo Kabul’s king, with whom he was to stay.

When tall Shaghad rose like a cypress tree,He rode with gorz and cast the kamand free.

The king found him, in stature, fit to ownThe Kayanian diadem and royal throne.

The king rejoiced and chose him for his race;He gave his daughter to that youth of grace.

He sent a fitting dowry from his hoard,His famous daughter’s portion, to her lord.

He kept him like a fresh and cherished fruit,An apple safe from evil stars’ pursuit.

The lords of Hind and Iran spoke his name,Recounting tales of Rostam’s mighty fame.

The annual tribute that from Kabul cameWas one ox-hide, which Rostam used to claim.

The king, when young Shaghad became his kin,Thought tribute soon would cease and joy begin.

He thought the lord of Zabul from that dayWould leave the tribute money where it lay.

But when the levy still was claimed and paid,Kabul was thrown in turmoil, and dismayed.

Shaghad grew angry at his brother’s deed,But spoke to no one of the anger’s seed.

In secret to Kabul’s king he confessed:“This world and all its ways I now detest.

How can I honor such a brother’s name,Who shows me neither courtesy nor shame?

No matter whether wise or mad he be,An elder brother or no kin to me,

Let us devise a snare to end his breath,And win renown by mighty Rostam’s death.”

They talked, agreed, and nursed their thoughts on high,Above the moon that travels through the sky.

The sage has said, “Whoever does a wrongWill meet its punishment, however strong.”

They lay awake until the dawn grew bright,While sleep fled far from both throughout the night.

They said, “We shall erase his name, and fillZal’s heart and eyes with hatred, sharp and ill.”

Shaghad then told the king of Kabul, “HearThe means by which our purpose may draw near.

Prepare a feast; let all the nobles shareIn wine and music, minstrels everywhere.

While drinking, coldly shame me in that hall;Call me unmanly there before them all.

Dishonored, I shall go to Zabul’s land,Complaining of the wrong done by your hand.

Before my father and my brother, scornI shall pour on you, graceless and low-born.

Then Rostam, stung by all the wrong I tell,Will ride against the city where you dwell.

Along the road, choose out a hunting place,And dig deep pits concealed across its face.

Make pits to hold both Rostam and his steed,And set long swords below to serve our deed.

Set spears and steel below, their points held high,Their handles buried, hidden from the eye.

A hundred pits will serve us more than five;Thus from your troubles freedom may arrive.

Employ a hundred cunning workers, boundTo secrecy; let not a rumor sound.

Then make the mouths of all the pits secure,And tell none; let total silence endure.”

The monarch cast all sober sense aside,And held the feast, with mad Shaghad as guide.

He summoned Kabul’s nobles to the hall,And set a laden board before them all.

When they had eaten, revels filled the court,With wine and strings and minstrels for their sport.

When royal wine had heated every head,Shaghad grew insolent, as planned, and said:

“In every gathering, I stand aloneAbove the rest,” he said in boastful tone.

“With Rostam for my brother, Zal my sire,What nobler ancestry could men desire?”

The king feigned anger, answering with spite:“Why should I hide the truth now brought to light?

No root in Sahm, Nariman’s son, have you;No brother’s bond with Rostam links you two.

Zal never speaks of you or calls your name;Why should your brother recognize your claim?

You stand below his servants in disgrace;His mother will not own the line you trace.”

Shaghad, as though enraged by what was said,Departed toward Zabul with wrathful tread.

He rode with men from Kabul, cold his sigh,His heart on vengeance, as farsangs went by.

He reached his glorious father’s royal court,With schemes concealed beneath his false report.

When Zal beheld his son so tall and bright,With grace divine and sinews full of might,

He questioned him and showed him every grace,Then sent him on to Rostam’s dwelling-place.

The Pahlevan rejoiced at that glad sight,His wisdom and his spirit’s shining light.

He said, “From Sahm descend the brave and bold;His seed breeds lion-hearts of proven mold.

How stand affairs between Kabul and you?What does its king now say of Rostam too?”

Shaghad replied, “Speak not of Kabul’s king;No more let any word his memory bring.

Before, his kindness toward me was sincere;He blessed me when he saw me drawing near.

Now, in his cups, he seeks to start a fight,And lifts his head above all men in sight.

He shamed me openly before his men,And showed the malice hidden from me then.

He said, ‘How long must tribute take its toll?We cannot stand against Sistan’s control.

I will no longer bow to Rostam’s name;My strength and birth give him no higher claim.’

‘No son of Zal,’ he said, ‘or, if you were,Zal’s worth is nothing; what could that confer?’

My heart was wounded before all those men;In grief and pallor I left Kabul then.”

When Rostam heard, fierce anger filled his breast:“No hidden matter long remains suppressed.

Think not of him, his country, or his crown;May realm and diadem alike fall down.

For those harsh words, his life shall reach its end;And grief upon his household shall descend.

I shall seat you upon his throne in mirth,And cast his lofty fortune to the earth.”

He kept Shaghad in honor many a day,And gave him lofty quarters for his stay.

He chose from all his army men whose nameWas known in battle, warriors great in fame.

He ordered them to ready for the road;In Kabul they would make their new abode.

When all stood ready, and the warrior chiefHad put his cares aside and found relief,

Shaghad approached the warrior and said,“Put thoughts of war with Kabul from your head.

Write but your name on water, and no sleepWill come to Kabul; none their rest will keep.

Who dares to come against you in the fight?Who waits when you begin to move in might?

I think the king regrets his former deed,And since I left, has sought help in his need.

He now will bring picked chiefs to seek your grace,Petitioners from Kabul to this place.”

Then Rostam said, “That is the proper way;I need no army for Kabul today.

Zavareh and a hundred horsemen strong,A hundred famed footmen, will come along.”

When evil-starred Shaghad left Kabul’s bounds,The king rode swiftly to the hunting grounds.

He chose the diggers from his fighting band,Men known among the soldiers of his land.

They honeycombed the hunting ground belowWith pits beneath the paths where riders go.

Within them, hafts set downward in the ground,Sharp blades and spears were planted all around.

No human eye, no wary beast, could spyWhat treachery beneath the earth might lie.

When Rostam set out, eager for the ride,Shaghad sent forth a horseman from his side:

“The hero comes without an army; pleadFor his protection, pardon for your deed.”

The king of Kabul, poison in his soul,With pleas upon his tongue, assumed his role.

When Rostam came in sight, he left his horse,And came on foot with grief and with remorse.

He bared his head, the Indian turban shed,And placed his hands upon his naked head.

He drew his boots off, humbled in disgrace,While tears like blood ran down his stricken face.

With both his cheeks in dust, he begged for graceFor what had passed in Shaghad’s grievous case.

“If drunken folly led your slave astray,And made him rise against you, disobey,

Forgive this fault and let me take my standAs once I stood, obedient to your hand.”

Barefoot he walked before the chief, his mindOn hatred fixed, his heart to plots inclined.

Rostam forgave the fault and showed him grace,Then raised him higher in his former place.

He bade him cover both his feet and head;The king remounted, riding on ahead.

Near Kabul lay a pleasant, fertile spot,Where greenery made lovely every plot.

There stood the trees, and water graced the ground;With joy they set their seats there all around.

The king brought food in plentiful array,And made a festive place both bright and gay.

He brought the wine and called for song to ring;The nobles sat on seats fit for a king.

Thereafter he addressed the chief and said:“When you would hunt, a noble range lies spread.

I have a place where hill and plain aboundWith herds of game on every stretch of ground.

The hills hold sheep; wild asses fill the plain;Whoever has a swift steed by the rein

Will take wild ass and gazelle in the chase;No hunter ought to pass so fair a place.”

Rostam grew eager at the words he heardOf watered plains where deer and wild ass stirred.

The heart turns toward the thing that brings its end;Blind judgment follows where its wishes tend.

This turning world behaves in such a way,And keeps its hidden secrets from the day.

The sea’s nahang, the leopard of the plain,And fierce, sharp-clawed lion all strive in vain.

Like ant and gnat, they meet the grip of death;No means can save them from their final breath.

He bade them saddle Rakhsh and range the fieldWith hawks and falcons for the hunt’s rich yield.

He laid his royal bow within its case,And rode beside Shaghad toward the chase.

Zavareh too was numbered in that ride,A few renowned companions at his side.

The hunting troops dispersed across the plain;On dug or filled-in ground they loosed the rein.

Yet Rostam and Zavareh took the wayAmong the pits, where Fate had marked its prey.

Rakhsh smelled the earth and drew his body small,Bunching himself as rounded as a ball.

He leapt in fear at what his nostrils found,And with his hooves he tore the yielding ground.

Rakhsh stepped along the path; his onward strideLed him between two pits, one on each side.

With eyes now veiled, Rostam in anger turnedAgainst his horse, while Death more fiercely burned.

He lifted up the whip and struck his steed,And, angry, urged brave Rakhsh to greater speed.

Hemmed in between two pits, he sought a wayTo flee the grasp of Fate that claimed its prey.

Two feet sank in; no foothold anywhere,No room to struggle in that deadly snare.

The pit was lined with spear and sharpened blade;No strength could help; no flight could bring him aid.

Steel tore Rakhsh’s flank and pierced the man of mightThrough breast and leg, despite his strength in fight.

With strength he drew his body to the rim,Up from the pit where steel had wounded him.

When wounded Rostam opened up his eyes,He saw Shaghad, who plotted his demise.

He knew the hand that had contrived the snare,And knew his brother’s treachery laid bare.

He said, “Ill-fated man, your evil handHas brought to ruin all this thriving land.

You shall repent this deed and pay its wage;You shall not live to reach a ripe old age.”

The vile Shaghad replied, “The heavens’ roundHas brought you justice, struck you to the ground.

How long have you made blood and plunder flow,And spread your wars through every realm below?

Now life shall leave you; now your end is near;The hands of Divs shall slay you, helpless here.”

Then Kabul’s king came riding on his wayInto the hunting ground where Rostam lay.

He saw the mighty warrior on the ground,His body torn, his wounds still left unbound.

“O famed warrior,” he said, “what sudden blowHas struck you in these hunting grounds so low?

I shall bring healers swiftly to this plain,And weep tears red as blood for all your pain.

Perhaps your wounds may heal, and I need shedNo tears of blood to dye my features red.”

Then Rostam answered, wounded where he lay:“You evil-natured schemer, hear me say:

My time for healers now has passed; for meShed no red tears to mourn what has to be.

Though long you live, death comes by fixed decree.No living man can pass the sky and flee.

I had no greater farr than Jamshid knew;Yet Bivar’s saw divided him in two.

Nor did my farr exceed those kings of earth,Fereydoon, Kay Qobad, of blessed birth.

When Siavash met the fate the heavens willed,By Gurvi’s khanjar was his lifeblood spilled.

They all were sovereigns over Iran’s land,Like male lions in battle did they stand.

They went, while we have lingered on this way;Like fierce lions at a crossing, still we stay.

My world-wise son, Faramarz, will pursueMy vengeance, and exact its price from you.”

He said to foul Shaghad, “Since treacherous steelHas laid me here with wounds no hand can heal,

Uncase my bow; let it express my will,My own interpreter, whose voice can kill.

String it, and set two arrows close to me;A hunting lion must not chance to see

Me lying wounded, helpless to withstandIts harm; a bow would serve me in my hand.

Lest some old lion tear my flesh, I trustThis bow to guard me till I fall to dust.”

Shaghad drew near and strung the bow up tight,Then drew it once to test the weapon’s might.

He laughed and laid it by the wounded chief;His brother’s mortal wounds brought joy, not grief.

The matchless hero took the bow in pain,And held it out despite his wounds and strain.

Shaghad, in terror of the arrows, fled,And put a tree between them, pale with dread.

A plane tree stood nearby, whose ancient frameHad stood through many years before he came.

Its trunk was hollow, yet its leaves still grew;It hid the wicked-minded man from view.

Though wounded, Rostam raised his hand to slay;He drew the bow and loosed the shaft away.

The shaft sewed tree and brother into one,And joy lit Rostam’s heart, his life near done.

Shaghad cried out when struck; his pain was brief;The hero’s shaft had brought him quick relief.

Then Rostam said, “To God I offer praise;For I have known Him all my living days.

Though life had reached my lips, revenge was wonBefore two nights had passed; the deed was done.

You gave me strength to strike this faithless foeBefore my death, and deal revenge’s blow.”

He spoke; his soul departed from its shell,And all the people mourned the man who fell.

In yet another pit Zavareh lay;All but one rider perished on that day.

One noble rider fled that field of dead,Now riding, now on foot, in haste he sped.

When he reached Zabul, pallid with despair,He cried, “The Elephant lies in the snare.

Zavareh too, and all the escort, lie;No other horseman lived to bring reply.”

Through Zabul rose a bitter cry of griefAgainst Kabul’s false king, the hostile chief.

Zal cast the dust upon his silver hair,And tore his breast and face in wild despair.

He cried, “Alas, great elephant in might!Let only shrouds now clothe me, cold and white.

Zavareh too, that noble warrior bold,That dragon-hearted lion, fierce of old!

Accursed Shaghad, luckless in his birth,Has torn that royal tree up from the earth.

Who knew a wicked fox could scheme to slayAn elephant upon that land one day?

Who can recall an age that knew such woe,Or tell what teacher spoke of such a blow?

That I should see great Rostam in the dust,Slain by a fox whose words had won his trust!

Why did I not die first and leave this breath?Why am I left to mourn them after death?

What need have I of life or lasting name,Of food or rest, of pleasure or acclaim?

O chief who took the lion in the fray!O world-subduing man, now torn away!”

He sent an army forth to fight the king;And charged Faramarz with this grievous thing:

To bring the slain man’s body from the pit,And make the whole world weep and mourn for it.

When Faramarz before Kabul drew near,No man of name was left who might appear.

They all had fled; the town in ruin and bare,Its hearts burned through by sorrow and despair.

Then Faramarz went to the hunting place,And saw the treacherous pits across its face.

He ordered biers set out; upon a bierThey laid that splendid tree, their warrior dear.

They loosed the hero’s belt and stripped awayThe royal robes in which his body lay.

They washed his breast and neck, his body bare,And beard in water warm, with gentle care.

They burned rich ambergris and saffron bright,And sewed his gaping wounds to close them tight.

They poured rosewater on his face and head,And laid pure camphor on the mighty dead.

When they had dressed him in brocade so fine,They called for roses and for musk and wine.

The shroud-maker, with bloody tears that flowed,Combed out the beard whose camphor whiteness showed.

Two biers could not contain him as he lay;Was this a man, or tree that shades the day?

They made a splendid coffin out of teak,With golden nails and ivory figures sleek.

They sealed each seam with pitch to make it fast,Then musk and fragrant blends upon it cast.

They drew Zavareh’s body from the pit,And stitched his wounds to close each gaping slit.

They washed him, wrapped him in brocade, and foundAn elm that grew upon the nearby ground.

The carpenters cut heavy boards to bearThe dead and shaped them with their practiced care.

With musk and camphor strewn above the bed,They poured rosewater underneath the dead.

Then from the pit they drew brave Rakhsh that day,And washed and clothed the body where it lay.

Two days were spent; an elephant then boreThe body of the steed who breathed no more.

From Kabul up to Zabul, every roadBent down beneath the public sorrow’s load.

The men and women gathered there in streams;No room remained amid their cries and screams.

They passed the two great coffins hand to hand,As if the wind bore them across the land.

They reached Zabul in two days and one night,And neither bier touched earth along the flight.

The death of Rostam filled the age with cries;The plain seemed boiling as those cries would rise.

No voice could reach another through the sound;In every land the wail of grief went round.

They built his tomb within a garden fair,And raised its roof to meet the clouds in air.

They set two golden thrones within the room,And laid on them the hero in his tomb.

Then all who once had served his royal name,Both free and faithful servants, grieving, came.

They mingled musk and roses, rich and sweet,And poured them at the mighty hero’s feet.

And each exclaimed, “O famous man of worth,Why wish for musk and ambergris on earth?

No feast now draws you to its honored seat;No babr clothes you for the battle’s heat.

You give no more your treasures, coin or gold;Such things have lost the worth they had of old.

May Paradise bring joy where you abide;God formed you just, with manliness your guide.”

They closed the tomb’s great door and turned to go;That lofty warrior lay forever low.

What do you seek in this world? None may stay.Grief marks its first and final passing day.

Though faithful, or of Ahriman’s dark kin,Though made of iron, dust will take you in.

While life endures, to deeds of goodness turn,That joy beyond this world you yet may earn.

When Faramarz had mourned his father slain,He led his gathered troops onto the plain.

He opened Rostam’s house and brought to lightHis father’s treasure, arming troops to fight.

At dawn the karnays lifted up their cry,Tabiras, Indian bells that shook the sky.

From Zabul toward Kabul his army poured,So vast the sun was hidden by the horde.

The ruler heard that Zabul’s men drew near,Its chiefs and warriors armed with sword and spear.

He called his scattered troops, and in they drew;The earth turned iron, air turned lapis-blue.

He marched to meet the troops; a dusty shroudHid sun and moon behind its darkened cloud.

When those two armies faced each other’s ranks,The warriors’ cries resounded from the flanks.

Within the woods, the lions lost their way,As horses thronged and dust obscured the day.

A wind arose; blue clouds of dust were spun,Until the earth and heaven seemed as one.

Then Faramarz advanced before his force,His eyes fixed on the king throughout his course.

Tabiras of both armies shook the ground;The restless fighters stirred at every sound.

With his slight force he charged the center’s might,And hurled himself into the thick of fight.

The riders’ dust made all the daylight dim;Kabul’s king fell a captive there to him.

His mighty force was scattered in dismay;Iran’s brave men were wolves upon the prey.

From every side they ambushed them and spedBehind the fleeing ranks as on they fled.

They slew the warriors of Hind in flight,And Sind’s proud chiefs fell with them in the fight.

They slew so many, blood became a mire;The men of Sind and Hind fled from their ire.

They fled their homes and lands in terror blind,And left their wives and children all behind.

Into an elephant’s high box they castThe bloodied king and held their captive fast.

Then Faramarz brought him back to the groundWhere once the fatal pits had all been found.

He led the foe, his hands securely tied,With forty idol-serving kin beside.

He stripped a thong of skin from off his back,Till bone and sinew showed along the track.

He hung him headfirst in the pit of dread,His body dust-clad, mouth all bloody red.

He burned the forty kinsmen, one and all,Then sought Shaghad, the author of the fall.

He raised a mountain fire that blazed around,And burned Shaghad, the plane tree, and the ground.

He led the troops toward Zabul; in their train,They bore that dust to Dastan from the plain.

When Faramarz had cut the tyrant down,He chose a man to rule in Kabul’s town.

None of that house in Kabul could evadeThe death-decree proclaimed by his sharp blade.

He came from Kabul, seared by grief that grew;The brightest day seemed dark and lapis-blue.

All Bost and Zabul raised their cries of grief;Their clothes were torn, their sorrow past relief.

They came to meet brave Faramarz in pain,With torn breasts, hearts that burned for Rostam slain.

For one full year, all Sistan mourned and knewNo joy; its people robed in black and blue.

One day Rudabeh spoke to Zal and said:“Lament for Rostam, for his life has fled.

For surely since the sun first lit the sky,No darker day has passed beneath its eye.”

Zal answered her: “O foolish woman, knowThat hunger’s pain will far surpass this woe.”

Rudabeh raged and swore: “No food or sleepShall touch my body while this vow I keep.

Perhaps my soul will see his soul once more,Among the souls who gathered there before.”

She fasted for a week in hope to holdCommunion with his spirit, bright and bold.

Her eyes grew dim; her body dwindled fast,And frailer grew with every day she passed.

Wherever she might go, attendants stayedClose by her side, of harm to her afraid.

At one week’s end, her reason from her fled;Now helpless, she went seeking to be fed.

She went into the kitchen in the night,Where water held a dead snake in her sight.

She seized its head, intent upon the meat,And meant to make the serpent hers to eat.

A servant snatched the serpent from her grasp;The others held her in their steady clasp.

They drew her from that unclean place to rest,And brought her to her chamber, still distressed.

They settled her upon her usual seat,Then brought a tray and readied food to eat.

She ate her fill; then underneath they spreadSoft cloths to make a comfortable bed.

She slept, relieved of grief, her pain subdued;Her stomach emptied; hunger was renewed.

They brought her food in plenty for relief;She ate, released from anguish and from grief.

Her senses came again; to Zal she cried:“Your counsel, Zal, with wisdom was allied;

Whoever lacks both food and sleep will findThat grief and feasting merge within the mind.

Our son has gone, and we shall follow too;We trust the Maker’s justice, firm and true.”

To all the poor she gave her hidden store,And prayed to God, His mercy to implore:

“O Lord beyond all name and place and reign,Cleanse matchless Rostam’s soul of every stain.

Grant him in Paradise a place to stay,And fruit from seed he sowed in earthly clay.”

Since matchless Rostam’s life has reached its close,I turn to tell the tale that next arose.

When fortune’s face to old Goshtasb grew dim,He summoned wise Jamasp to come to him.

He said: “Through Esfandiyar’s fate I bearA heart scorched raw by mourning and despair.

Not one day of my life has passed in cheer;A vengeful star has made my days severe.

Now after me Bahman shall hold the throne;Let Bishutan his inmost thoughts be shown.

Do not reject his orders or betrayYour covenant with him, nor turn away.

Let each of you stand by to guide his reign;He merits throne and crown and the domain.”

He gave the keys of treasure to his heir,And drew a cold sigh from his deep despair.

He said: “My work is done, my course is sped;The water now has risen past my head.

For six score years I ruled without a peer,No equal rose to match me, far or near.

Now stir yourself; be just to all your folk,And let your justice lift your sorrow’s yoke.

Keep wise men close to you and make them glad;Make dark the world for those whose aims are bad.

Be upright; let your truthfulness prevail,And turn from crooked ways where virtues fail.

I yield the throne, the diadem, the gold,After the toil and suffering borne of old.”

He spoke; his days were done, his moment passed;No vanished hour returned from out the past.

Of shiz and ivory they built his tomb,His crown hung high above the throne’s still gloom.

Such was his share of treasure, toil, and gain:Past sweets and nush-daru came poison’s pain.

If life is this, what pleasure can it bring?Death makes the poor the equal of the king.

Enjoy your earnings, shun all evil ways,And heed the counsel of the wise always.

Our fellow traveler passed; we still remain,Much have we read of past events and pain.

The traveler reached the journey’s resting place;The seeker found the path he sought to trace.

Hear what the wise old sage would have you know:Only your goodness helps you as you go.

Now Bahman’s deeds shall claim our toil and thought;To wise Bishutan let our sense be brought.