The peerless Rustam grieved about Alwá,
Let loose the twisted lasso from its straps,
And took his massive mace as for a strife
Of chiefs. He roared like some mad elephant
As he advanced with lasso on his arm
And mace in hand. Kámús said: “Bluster not
So much about a thread of sixty coils.”
“The lion roareth bravely,” Rustam said,
“On catching sight of game. Thou wast the first
To put the girdle on in this dispute,
And thou hast slain a noble of Írán.
Thou sayest that my lasso is a thread;
Now shalt thou see how tight the knots will hold.
Thy fate doth drive thee on, man of Kashán!
Since here no place is left thee save the dust.”
Kámús the valiant urged his dun steed on,
His foe a lasso-bearing Elephant,
And let out with his glittering glaive, intent
To sever Rustam's head. The point alighted
On Rakhsh's neck and clave the battle-mail,
But failed to wound. The elephantine hero

Coiled, whirled, and flung the lasso round his foe,
Then spurred away and made the leather fast
Beneath his thigh while Rakhsh flew eagle-like.
Kámús undaunted tightly gripped his steed,
Pressed firmly on the stirrups, loosed the reins,
And sought by force to break the twisted thong,
Becoming frantic, but the raw hide held.
The elephantine hero, checking Rakhsh,
Wheeled, jerked Kámús headforemost to the ground,
Came up, secured him in the lasso's coils,
And said to him: “Thou art not dangerous now.
In vain are all thy charms and spells; thy soul
Hath made a fruitless bargain with the Dív.”
He bound his prisoner's hands behind the back,
Firm as a rock, then grasped the coils, returned
Afoot, his foe beneath his arm, and told
The warriors: “This lover of the fray
Essayed to match himself with me in strength,
But 'tis the wont with this deceitful world
At times to elevate, at times bring low.
It causeth both our happiness and grief,
And one is whiles on earth, whiles in the clouds.
Now this illustrious warrior, who ever
Was wont to prove the lion's match in fight,
Set forth to desolate Írán, to make
A den of lions of our fields and fells,
And leave behind no palaces or bowers
Of roses in Zábul or in Kábul.
He would not lay aside that mace of his
Till he had slaughtered Rustam son of Zál;
But now his helm and hauberk are his shroud,
His crown is dust, and his juppon the grave.
On what wise do ye purpose slaying him,
Because Kámús the warrior's work is done?”
Then Rustam flung Kámús upon the ground
Before the chiefs; the warriors left their ranks,
They hacked his body with their scimitars,
And drenched the stones and dust beneath with blood.
Such is the course of heaven and destiny,
Now causing joy, then pain and misery!
All is toil, anguish, trouble, and distress;
Thy courage will not make it more or less.
Thy body hath a load of guilt to bear,
Thy spirit dwelleth in a world of care;
And let not bravery thy thoughts elate,
For stretched above thee is the hand of Fate.
With all thy might incline to virtue's ways,
And offer unto God—the Guide—thy praise.

The strife with brave Kámús hath reached its goal
In death when He that gave took back the soul.
Now valour and revenge will fill the scene:
I tell the battle with the Khán of Chín.