He bade to write a letter to his mother,
And said to her: “One cannot blink Death's presage!
In this world I have had the appointed share,
And waned life waxeth not. Grieve not at all
About my death, for death is no new thing:
Royal or base whoe'er is born must die.
I will instruct the Rúman chiefs that when
They quit this land they must consult thy pleasure
In all things and obey thee loyally.
On every prince among the Íránians,
That might have caused calamity to Rúmans
I have bestowed a province. Now when each
Of these hath entered on his government,
Good sooth, he will have no desire for Rúm;
Our marches and our land will rest from foes.
Embalm me dead upon the soil of Misr,
And spill no word of mine. Of my dínárs
Bestow one hundred thousand every year
Upon the husbandmen; and should a son
Be born to Rúshanak his father's name
In truth will live, and Rúm must have no king
Save him, for he will renovate that land;
But in her travail if she bear a daughter
Espouse her to the son of Failakús;
Call him my son, not son-in-law, and keep
Within the world through him my memory green.
Send back too scathless to her sire in state
Kaid's daughter with her own devoted slaves,
And purses. Furnish litters for the journey;
Send too the crowns and gems, the gold and silver,
Brought by her from her sire, to Hindústán
Whene'er she would depart. I have achieved
All that I purposed here and now perforce
Must think of death. List to my last requests,
And add not thereunto. First fashion me
A golden coffin. Let my shroud be made
In worthy fashion of gold cloth of Chín,
And saturate with ambergris, and let
No pains be spared for me, but seal my coffin
With pitch and camphor, musk and spicery.
First pour in honey, let it be above,
And let there be brocade of Chín below;
Then let my corpse be laid inside the coffin,
And, when ye veil my visage, there an end.
O my wise mother! keep in mind my counsel
While life endureth. All that I have gathered
From Hind, Túrán, Makrán, Írán, and Chín,
Keep thou, but give thy superfluities,
What thou canst not enjoy thyself, away.
'Tis my desire for thee, my loving mother!
That thou be watchful and serene of soul,
And not too toilful, for none tarrieth here
For ever. Surely when thy day is done
Our souls will meet again. 'Tis nobler far
To suffer than to love, and 'tis the mean
That yield to passion. Since my body once
Was all thy care for months and years, now pray
To God for my pure soul and help me thus,
For prayer is all in all. Behold and see
If there be any in earth's round whose soul
Is stricken not at death.”

He sealed and closed

The letter, and bade men on speedy steeds
Convey these tidings from Bábil to Rúm:—
“The Grace of king of kingship is bedimmed!”
Now when the army was aware thereof
The world was darkened to the chiefs, who set
Their faces toward the throne of majesty,
And all the world was full of hue and cry.