The Mourning for Rostam

One rider slipped away from among those heroes, sometimes on foot, sometimes back in the saddle. When he reached Zabolestan, he said: The raging elephant now lies wedded to the dust. Zavareh too is gone, and his army with him; not one rider escaped the malice of that traitor. A cry of grief rose up out of Zabolestan, aimed at the enemy and the king of Kabolestan. Zal poured dust upon his own neck and shoulders, tearing his face and his chest in his grief. He wept and said: O mighty champion, I want nothing now to clothe my body but a shroud. That proud champion, that bold dragon of war, and Zavareh, who was famed as a lion, Shaghad, that cursed, ruined-fated wretch, has uprooted this royal tree from its very base. Who could imagine that a vile fox would plot such treachery against the elephant, against this land? Who has ever known days like these, or heard such a thing from any teacher? That I should see a man like Rostam laid in the dust, killed by the cunning words of a fox. Why did I not die piteously before them? Why was I left in the world as a memory? Why should I want life and a throne now? Why should I want sleep and a resting place? Then he began a long lament, mourning over his hero son. O lion-hearted champion, O noble hero, brave, worldly-wise warrior, Where now is your courage, your manly strength? Where is your greatness, your wisdom? Where is your heart, your judgment, your bright soul? Where are your broad chest, your stature, your mighty neck? Where is your great dragon banner? Where are your arrow, your mace, your violet-gleaming sword? You are gone from the world, sunk into the earth; may your enemy's head lie in the pit. Then he sent Faramarz with an army to seek battle against the king. He drew the slain body up from the pit, and brought the world low with weeping. When Faramarz reached Kabol, he found no man of rank left in the city. The whole city had fled, in tears, scorched with grief for the world-conqueror. He came to that hunting field, to the place where they had dug the pit. When the brave son saw his father's face, he let out a roar like a lion. There he lay upon the earth, his body full of blood, flung face-down on the ground. He said: O lofty champion, who brought such harm upon your face? A curse on that reckless man; let dust, not a crown, cover his head. By God and by your soul, O renowned one, by the earth of Nariman and Sam the horseman, I swear my body shall wear nothing but armor, ready for war, its buckles fastened. Until I take revenge for this mighty champion from that faithless assembly. Everyone who joined in this treachery with him, who bound himself to it, whose name we have heard, I will leave not one of them alive, nor anyone who guided them along this road. He gave orders to bring heavy planks, precious boards from every side. They brought many, along with tools and a bier, and laid fine wood upon the bier. He loosened the champion's belted waist and stripped the royal garments from him. First they gently washed the warm blood from his chest, neck, beard, and body. They burned amber and saffron, and stitched shut all his wounds. They poured rosewater over his head and spread pure camphor over his body. They dressed his body in brocade, then called for rose, musk, and wine. The shroud-maker wept blood over him and combed that camphor-whitened beard. Two biers held no room for his body: was his frame a shade-casting tree? They made a fine coffin of teak wood, with golden nails and figures carved in ivory. They sealed all its seams with pitch, and smeared the pitch with musk and perfume. He drew his brother up out of the pit, and stitched him wherever he saw a wound. With musk and camphor above and rosewater below, he laid him thus in his resting place. Then he drew up the body of Rakhsh, washed it and spread garments over it. They washed it and made a shroud of brocade, then searched out an elm tree somewhere. The vigilant, skilled carpenters set to work and cut heavy planks from it. Two days passed in that labor, then they loaded Rakhsh's body onto an elephant. From Kabolestan all the way to Zabolestan, the land became one clamor of grief. Men and women stood on their feet; there was no room left on the ground for a single body. They passed the two coffins along by hand, from the throng they moved as swift as the wind. In ten days and ten nights they reached Zabol; no one saw them set the coffins down on the ground. The age itself cried out at his loss; you would think the plain had come to a boil. No one could even hear another's voice; all the lands did nothing but wail. In a garden they built a tomb, raising its head up to the clouds. They set two golden biers facing each other, and laid the fortunate hero to sleep upon them. Everyone who was among the servants, both the freeborn and the pure-hearted retainers, mingled musk with rose and scattered it at the mighty champion's feet. Each one said: O renowned one, why would you want musk and amber scattered for you? You no longer seek kingship or feasting; you no longer put on the armor of war. You no longer give away treasure and gold coins; it seems all such things became worthless in your eyes. Now be joyful in blessed paradise, for God shaped you from justice and manly virtue. They sealed the tomb and turned back; that renowned, proud-necked lion was gone. What do you keep seeking from this fleeting inn, whose beginning is pain and whose end is pain? You will crumble into dust even if you are made of iron, whether you worship God or serve the devil. As long as you live, lean toward goodness, so that you may find your desire in the other world.