A cry rose from Túrán: “Suhráb hath fallen
Upon the battlefield!” The tidings reached
The king of Samangán, who rent his robes.

The tidings reached Tahmína: “Brave Suhráb
Hath perished, stricken by his father's sword!”
She seized her robe and rent it, and her form—
That goodly gem—shone forth. She raised a cry
Of wail and woe, and swooned at whiles. She coiled
Her hair like twisted lassos round her fingers
And plucked it out. The blood ran down her face,
At times she sank fordone. She strewed dark dust
Upon her head, gnawed pieces from her arms,
Flung fire upon her head and scorched herself,
And burned her musky tresses. “Where art thou,”
She cried, “who wast thy mother's soul, but art
Now only dust and blood? I scanned the road,
I said: ‘I may have tidings of Suhráb
And Rustam.’ Then I mused and said: ‘Already
Hast thou been round the world to find thy father,
Hast found him, and art speeding home again.’
How could I know, my son! that news would come
That he had pierced thy liver with his sword?
He had no pity for that face of thine,
Thy stature, mien, and arms, he pitied not
Thy girdlestead but clave it with his blade.
I used to nurse the body of my boy
Through days of brightness and through weary nights,
And now 'tis drowned in blood! A winding-sheet
Is all the cover of his stainless form.
Whom shall I clasp upon my bosom now?
Who is there that will rid me of my grief?
Whom shall I call upon to take thy place?
To whom impart my pain and misery?
Woe for his soul and body, eye and lustre,
That dwell in dust instead of hall and garden!
O warrior, shelter of the host! thou soughtest
Thy sire and in his place hast found thy grave.
Hope turned in thee to dolorous despair,
And now thou sleepest scorned and miserable
Amid the dust. Before he drew his dagger
And gashed thy silvern side why didst not thou
Show him the token that thy mother gave thee?
Why didst thou not declare thyself to him?
Thy mother told thee how to know thy sire:
How was it that thou didst not trust her words?
Without thee she is as the captives are—
All travail, anguish, misery, and sighing.
Why went I not with thee that wast to be
The warriors' cynosure? He would have known me
Though far away and welcomed both of us,
Cast down his sword and never pierced thy side.”
This said she tore herself, plucked out her hair,
And smote her lovely visage with her palms.
She filled the eyes of all the folk with hail,
So grievous were her moans and lamentations.
At length while all hearts ached she fell a-swoon,
Fell as one falleth dead upon the ground,
And thou hadst said: “Her blood is turned to ice.”
She roused, thought of her son, and wailed afresh,
Her very heart's blood crimsoning her tears.
She fetched his crown, wept o'er it and his throne,
Exclaiming in her grief: “O royal Tree!”
She brought his wind-foot charger forth, that charger
Which he had prized so in his happy days,
And clasped and kissed its head, to folk's amazement,
And nuzzled on its hoofs, while her blood fell
And reddened all the ground. She took his robe
And clasped it to her body like her son,
She fetched his jerkin, coat of mail, and bow,
His spear, his falchion, and his massive mace.
She fetched his saddle with the reins and buckler,
And dashed her head thereon. She fetched his lasso,
And flung its eighty cubits out before her.
She fetched his helm and breastplate, and exclaimed:—
“O warrior-lion!” drew his sword and docked
His charger's mane and tail. She gave the poor
His goods—the silver, gold, and harnessed steeds.
She locked the palace, rooted up the throne,
Then brought it down and dashed it to the ground.
She blacked the chambers' doors, sent up the dust
From porch and palace, gave to desolation
The banquet-hall that he had left for battle,
Assumed the weeds of woe all stained with blood,
By day and night lamented him with tears,
Died broken-hearted in a year, and joined
Her warrior-son.

Said eloquent Bahrám:—

“Dote not upon the dead; thy proper care
Is for thine own departure to prepare,
Since here thou canst not stay. So dally not.
Thy father once gave up his place to thee,
And thou must give up thine. Such is our lot,
And 'tis a secret still, a mystery,
Nor wilt thou with thy dazed mind find a key.
To open that closed door may no man know.
Endeavour not therefor, else wilt thou throw
Life to the winds. Our summons to depart
Is from the God and Master of us all;
Then on this Wayside Inn set not thy heart;
The profit of such sojourn is but stuall.”

Now from this history my face I turn:
The tale of Siyáwush is my concern.