He said to Farangís: “That dream of mine
Hath come to pass: my glory is bedimmed.
For me existence draweth to an end,
The misery of bitter days hath come.
My palace may reach Saturn, yet death's poison
Hath to be drunk; though life should be prolonged
Twelve hundred years dark dust is our last home;
Some are the food of lions, some of vultures
Or eagles. Nobody possessed of wisdom
Expecteth any brightness from the night.
This is the fifth month of thy pregnancy
With our illustrious and growing babe:
This precious Tree of thine will bring forth Fruit,

A glorious monarch; name him Kai Khusrau,
And in thy sorrowing find peace in him.
None from the bright sun to the darksome dust,
From gnat's wing to the mighty elephant's foot,
And from the well-spring to the river Nile,
Can scape the justice of All-holy God.
Túránian soil will be my grave, and none
Will say: ‘His dust reposeth in Írán.’
May not men call this old world new whose sky
So quickly altereth? My jocund fortune
Will sleep henceforward by the king's command.
They will strike off this guiltless head of mine,
And lay my diadem in my heart's blood.
For me no bier, shroud, grave, or weeping people,
But like a stranger I shall lie in dust,
A trunk beheaded by the scimitar;
While thee, thy head unveiled, thy body bare,
The guards shall drag in shame along the road.
Then will Pírán the chieftain reach the court,
Plead with thy sire to spare thy blameless life,
And bear thee to his palace in thine anguish.
There in the house of that old, honoured man
Wilt thou bring forth illustrious Kai Khusrau,
And there will come a saviour from Írán,
One with his loins girt up by God's command,
Who will convey thee and thy son in haste
Toward the Jíhún. Thy son will have the throne,
And rule o'er fowl and fish. A host will come
For vengeance from Írán and shake the world.
Such is the process of the fickle sky,
Which cottoneth to no man out of love!
Oh! what a mighty host will don their mail
To vindicate mine honour! Battle-shouts
Will rise, and Kai Khusrau will vex the age;
Then Rustam's Rakhsh will trample earth, despising
Túránian folk, and thou wilt see no vengeance
Ta'en for me till the Resurrection-day
Save by the mace and trenchant scimitar.”
The noble hero turned himself to her,
Bade her farewell, and said: “Fair spouse! I go;
Be strengthened by my words, and think no more
Of luxury and throne.”

He left the palace,

Heart-broken, pale, lamenting sore. O world!
I wot not why thou nurturest men if they
Whom thou hast nurtured are to be thy prey!
The lady tore her cheeks, plucked out her hair,
Sent two streams pouring from her eyes, and hung
Upon him as he spake the words of woe.
With cheeks and eyes which ran with his heart's blood
He sought the stables of his Arab steeds,
And led forth from its stall night-hued Bihzád,
Which overtook the wind in days of battle.
He groaned, he clasped its head upon his breast,
And took the halter and the headstall off.
Long while he whispered in his charger's ear,
And said: “Be prudent, have to do with none.
When to avenge me Kai Khusrau shall come
It is on thee that he must put the bridle,
So now renounce the stable once for all,
For thou shalt carry him to his revenge.

Be thou his charger, trample on the world,
And with thy hoofs sweep foemen from the earth.”
He hamstrung all the other steeds and slashed
Their legs like rushes with his scimitar.
As for the riches in the treasury,
His palace, and rose-garden, his brocade,
Dínárs, pearls, jewelry, the diadem,
Sword, belt, and helm, he burned and wasted them.