The news reached Sháh Káús: “The prince is slain!
The monarch of Túrán wrung off his head
As 'twere a bird's! On every mountain-top
Wild beasts lament the guiltless. Bulbuls mourn
Upon the cypress, francolins and pheasants
Beneath the rose. Túrán is seared and sore,
Pomegranate leaves are yellow in the gardens.
Gurwí set down a golden bowl and raised
As 'twere a sheep's the face of Siyáwush;
They cut his royal head off; there was none
To help or plead.”

When Sháh Káús heard this

His crowned head bowed itself upon the state,
He rent his robes, he tore his cheeks, and quitted
His high throne for the dust. The Íránians
Went mourning on their way, the cavaliers
Put on their funeral weeds, their eyes wept blood,
Their cheeks were pale, all spake of Siyáwush.
Tús and Gúdarz, the gallant Gív, Shápúr,
Bahrám the Lion and Farhád arrayed
Themselves in raiment black and blue; no head
Retained its helmet but had dust instead.