“Bestir thyself,” Pírán said to the prince,
Then took him from the presence of the king,
And went back to his palace, flushed with joy
And triumph, since the eye of ill was closed.
He said: “A new Tree fruiteth in the world
Through Him that ruleth over destiny.”
He oped the portals of his ancient hoards
And furnished all that Kai Khusrau required—
Brocade, dínárs, and precious stones, with pearls,
Steeds, implements of war, and crowns and girdles,
Besides a throne and purses full of drachms,
With carpetings and matters great and small.
He brought them all to Kai Khusrau with speed,
And with the present gave his blessing also,
Then sent both son and mother to the seat
That good king Siyáwush had built. They went
Their way rejoicingly toward the place,
Which had become by then a brake of thorns.
When Farangís and Kai Khusrau arrived
Much folk from every side appeared to greet them,
While all the city's tongues were full of praise:

“Thus then,” they said, “hath fortune made a Shoot
Sprout from the razed roots of a noble Tree!
Far be the eye of evil from the king,
And may light fill the soul of Siyáwush.”
The brambles of the city turned to box,
The meadow-grass to noble cypresses;
The very beasts rejoiced and all the folk
Felt solace for the death of Siyáwush,
Since cloudward from the dust that drank his blood
There rose an Evergreen of sweet perfume,
Upon whose leaves his likeness was portrayed,
Exhaling through his love the scent of musk,
And flourishing in winter as in spring
Would be a prayer-place for the sorrowful.
This is the process of the ancient sky—
It robbeth infants of their mother's breast,
And to the dust deposeth suddenly
A heart by fondness for the world possessed.
Brave not the world but seek its joys to win;
It hideth evils more than thou canst know,
Yet treat it as a garden and therein
Abstain from sniffing at the leaves of woe,
For whether thou art king or shod by want
In any case thy length of days is scant.
Vex not thy soul, this home is but a cheat,
Thy sole possession is a narrow bier;
What needeth thine amassing? Sit and eat;
God is thy treasurer, thou need'st not fear.
Albeit here much happiness is found
The world hath no real love for anyone.
'Twill raise a head one moment to the sun,
And in the next will lay it underground.
It is the process of the lofty sky
To bring down princes and set slaves on high.

I turn from blood to vengeance and tell how
Gív bare off from Túrán Sháh Kai Khusrau.