English
The Reign of Hormozd, Son of Narsi
When great Hormozd took the throne, the wolf's claws grew too short to seize its prey.
He kept the world in safety, and every demonic deed was driven into hiding.
First he gave praise to the Creator, the mighty, the wise, the sustainer of all.
He made night and day and the turning heavens, and shaped Mars, Saturn, and the Sun.
From him come victory and glory, the heart, justice, and the royal crown.
May our heart always be full of justice, and may the hearts of our subjects rejoice in us.
A mean and base man wins no honor; keep away from base people as much as you can.
So too with a man of malicious will: if you take this counsel, lean toward goodness.
Anyone who gives only to be praised for it, God the giver does not call one who knows Him.
And if the receiver is ungrateful too, it is fitting that no one count him worth anything.
The hard, diligent worker still lives in fear that no one loves him.
And if he grows slack in his work, no counselor or guide will call on him.
If you seek lazy people as partners in your work, you will not be a world-seeker or counted among true men.
See to it that you do not hold yourself too high, and if you gain rank, do not turn arrogant.
When a poor, wretched man grows ill-natured, he brings misfortune upon himself from the bad times.
All year long he is idle, complaining of his luck, with neither wisdom nor knowledge nor fitness for the throne.
And if his wealth is taken from him, his spirit, his mind, and his heart all waste away.
He turns to poverty and bad temper; he has no sense, yet he lifts his head in pride.
No wealth, no knowledge, no counsel, no skill, no faith, and no acceptance of the Just One.
May your nights and days be blessed, and may the ill-wisher's soul be scattered.
The nobles offered him their blessings, and put aside their mourning for past kings.
When nine years had passed under the heavens, that pomegranate-blossom face turned pale as a yellow rose.
Grief came from the death of that crowned head: he died, and had no son to inherit the crown.
That famous man of sweet speech left this old world for a new one.
So it has always been, as the turning wheel goes on: it is able to do all, and we are powerless.
For forty days they mourned him, then let his throne stand empty and unhonored.
For a long while the throne lay idle, and the nobles' minds were full of sorrow.
The high priest looked into the king's harem and saw a tulip-cheeked girl shining like the moon.
Her eyelashes were like a Kabuli dagger, her two locks like the winding curl of a Mongol script.
Chained curl within curl, woven together, with knots tied and their ends twisted up.
That fairy-faced girl carried a child within her, and the world rejoiced at that lovely face.
After forty days they called for music and wine, and set up a royal throne.
They hung a crown above her head, and showered that crown with gold and silver coins.
Forty days passed over the beautiful one, and a child came, like the radiant sun.
The high priest named him Shapur, and held a feast in his joy.
You would have said he carried the divine glory, and the shadow of a wise judgment lay over him.
The gold-belted champions came and hung the golden crown above him.
When they had let the child drink his fill of milk, they wrapped him then in silk.
The forty-day-old child, beneath that golden crown, they set upon the fortunate throne of his father.