The Íránians drew up for battle royal,
And what with thundering drum and blaring trumpet
Thou wouldst have said: “The earth is tottering.”
Afrásiyáb, when he beheld, arrayed
His army opposite. “The sun hath set,”
Thou wouldst have said, earth was so dark with dust
Of horsemen. Mid the war-cries none could tell
A mountain from a plain, host grappled host
And blood ran like a river where Káran
They fought till night
And then Afrásiyáb was conqueror,
For more were stricken on the Íránian side
And still the foemen's battle was unbroken.
The Íránians turned their faces helplessly,
Abandoning their camp upon the waste.
Naudar was grieved that fortune should besmirch
His crown with dust, and when the tymbals ceased
He sent for Tús, who came with Gustaham,
All sighs and grief. “What pain is in my heart!”
He cried, recalling what his dying sire
Foretold: “An army from Túrán and Chín
Will come against Írán, grieve thee and bring
Disaster on thy troops.”
“The words are now
Fulfilled,” he said, “the arrogant have triumphed;
But who e'er read in tales of famous men
Of any that led forth such Turkman hosts?
Go ye to Párs to fetch the women-folk
And bear them through the passes to Alburz.
Take unperceived the road to Ispahán,