The Archer of Ardabil

In Ardabil there was a man of iron grip who could drive an arrow clean through an elephant. A fighter in a felt coat came out to face him, a young man burning for the world, hungry for battle. He charged into the fray like Bahram Gur, a lasso of raw hide slung across his shoulder. When the man of Ardabil saw the ragged felt coat, he strung his bow and drew the string to his ear. He struck him with fifty poplar arrows, yet not a single shaft went through the felt. The felt-clad fighter closed in like the champion Sam, caught him in the loop of his lasso and hauled him off. He dragged him to the camp and in his tent tied his hands to his neck like a murderous thief. That night he could not sleep for shame and wounded pride; at dawn a servant in the tent spoke up. You, who can pierce iron with your arrows, how did you end up the felt-wearer's captive? I heard him answer, weeping tears of blood: don't you know that no one lives past the day death is due? I am the man who, in the art of thrust and blow, could teach even Rustam the ways of war. While the arm of my fortune was strong, a thick elephant hide seemed no more than felt to me. Now that luck no longer fills my grip, felt before my arrow is as tough as an elephant. On death's appointed day a spear tears through armor, but before that day it won't pierce even a shirt. The man with death's sword of doom at his back stands naked, however many layers his armor has. But if luck stands with him and fate has his back, you couldn't kill him with a cleaver, even bare. The wise man's efforts win no reprieve from death, and the fool does not die from eating badly.