English
Bijan Speaks to His Father Before the Battle
On the fourth day Bijan, son of Giv, rode out from the front lines to the center of the army.
Before his father he tore his clothes in frustration and flung dust into the air.
He said: Father, you experienced warrior, why do you keep us waiting here for nothing?
This is now the fifth day, and night and day have taught us only idleness.
The sun has seen no sword flashing in a warrior's hand, no dust has risen into the sky.
Our riders sit inside their armor and helmets, not a drop of blood stirs in anyone's veins.
In Iran, after the famous Rostam, there was never a horseman to equal Gudarz.
Yet ever since he came from the war of Pashan, from all that killing and that crowded field of battle,
since Lavan, where he saw so many of his sons slain and saw the fortune of the Iranians turn against them,
his heart is wounded and he has lost his way; he no longer even wants to look at a battlefield.
He should keep his eyes fixed on Piran, but instead he has set his mind on the high mountains.
A commander who, instead of counting his troops, counts the stars circling the moon.
Know this: there is no blood left in his body; he has grown feeble in the face of these fighting warriors.
I am not surprised at the world-wise Gudarz, for his spirit is no longer set on this frontier.
But you astonish me, father, you from whom even a raging lion would seek courage.
Two armies keep their eyes on you: sharpen your mind and kindle your anger.
Now, while the world is warm and the air is bright, let the battle of the armies begin its song.
For when this pleasant season passes and the face of the earth freezes hard as steel,
when hands go numb upon the spears, with the sword's edge behind and stone before,
who among the champions will ride out before the army, who will take up the fight on this field?
And if he is truly afraid of some ambush, of the war of horsemen and men of vengeance,
then he should give me a thousand riders, my chosen men, fit for the fight.
We will raise the dust from their hiding places and scatter heads from up above their moon-like standard.
At Bijan's words Giv laughed and showered praise upon his brave son.
He said to the Creator: I thank you, for you gave me a son who knows what is good.
You gave him both wisdom and the strength for vengeance, one who understands every task and seeks the faith.
This bold young man has taken after me, just as a hero's cub ought to be.
The fierce lion said this to his mate: if our offspring should not prove brave,
we will cut off our pure love and bond from him, though his father is the water of the sea and his mother the earth.
But you, my sharp-tongued son, do not open your mouth against your grandfather.
For he is seasoned and wiser, the leader over this renowned army.
A man who is tempered by battle needs no teacher for every single task.
If our riders sit still and hold back, it is not that the Turks are men of mere color and ornament.
They too are ill-fortuned and heads turned in grief, their eyes full of blood and their hearts wounded.
This experienced elder wants only this: to draw the Turks into the fight,
so their line of retreat stays far from the mountains, and this vengeful army sweeps them all together.
Then you will see the mace of Gudarz, how he will overrun the whole frontier.
And besides, from the good and evil of the stars he reads the turning of the heavens.
When that good day comes, he will clear the face of the world of the Turks.
Bijan spoke thus before his father: O champion of all the world,
if this is the plan of my blessed grandfather, then it is fitting that we set aside our fine Roman robes.
I will strip off my mail and helmet, and with wine bring color back to my faded face.
And when the world's champion has need of me, I will come with my belt fastened, ready for war.