Pírán dispatched a camel-post by night
To tell Afrásiyáb: “Troops have arrived
With shawms and tymbals from Írán, commanded
By Gív, Gúdarz, and Tús, whom I have duped
And much advised with. Choose a warrior-host
Or else the war will be inglorious.
We may uproot the foe and fire their land,

Else in their vengeance for prince Siyáwush
The Íránian army ne'er will rest from strife.”
Afrásiyáb thereat convoked his captains,
Told what had chanced, and said: “Prepare for war.”
Afrásiyáb arrayed a power that dimmed
The eye of Sol; that host, so great that earth
Was hidden, on the tenth day reached Pírán,
Who having victualled and disposed the troops,
And loaded up the baggage, marched in haste,
Regarding not his promise, to the Shahd.
A scout came in to Tús and said to him:—
“Bind thou the drums upon the elephants
Because Pírán, perceiving downfall nigh,
Spake guilefully. We see the tyrant's standard
And army drawn up on the river-bank.”
Tús put his battle in array. They ranged
The elephants and tymbals on the plain.
The two lines, like two mountains, clashed in fight—
The Íránian horsemen and the Turkman troops.
The dust-clouds of the hosts so dimmed the sun
That fire rose from the stream—the flash of sword,
Of dart and javelin—and thou hadst said:—
“Earth planted air with tulips!” With the stir
Of horsemen with their golden belts, and all
The golden helmets and the golden shields,
A cloud in hue like sandarach arose,
And earth became like ebony with dust.
The horsemen's heads beneath the mighty maces
Seemed anvils 'neath smiths' hammers. Thou hadst
said:—
“The river is a wine-press running blood,
The air is like a reed-bed with the spears!”
Then many heads were caught in lasso-coils,
Then many an honoured form was cast away.
The shroud was mail, the pillow blood and dust;
The bosom had been hacked by scimitars.
Earth was a cercis-bloom, air ebony;
The din of tymbals filled the starry heaven.
What though the ambitious man a crown may gain,
Or but the battle's surge of blood and dust,
Yet from this world of our's depart he must,
Whate'er his portion—antidote or bane.
I wot not of the end but, this I know,
It is a cause for tears to have to go.