New NaqqaliPahlevan · son of Rostam and Tahmineh
Sohrabسهراب
soh-RAHB
Son of Rostam and Tahmineh, killed unknowingly by his father.
- His story
- From B8.5, The Birth of Sohrab, to B8.25, Tahmineh Hears of Sohrab’s Death
- Named
- 119 times, in 24 dastans
- Parents
- Rostam
- Plates
- Vol I: VII
His story, in the poem’s own sections
9 sections, with the summary from the Notes. Open any one to read it in full here; tap a couplet number to cite it or suggest a better one.
B8.5
The Birth of Sohrab
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Sohrab is born and grows at astonishing speed. At ten he demands to know his father. Tahmineh names Rostam, shows his gifts and warns her son to hide the secret from Afrasiab. Sohrab resolves to dethrone Kavus, crown Rostam and then take Turan.
36 couplets · Sohrab named 2 times · in the full poem
At nine months’ end, a moon-bright child appeared,And all Samangan’s royal house was cheered.
He seemed the very form that Rostam bore,Like Sahm or Nariman in days before.
The infant smiled, his face grew fresh and bright,Tahmineh named him Sohrab with delight.
Within a month he seemed a year in height,His chest like Rostam’s, broad with growing might.
At three he trained with weapons of the field,At five a lion’s heart was there, revealed.
At ten no warrior in that land would tryTo test him armed beneath the open sky.
One day he came before his mother’s place,And spoke with boldness written in his face:
“Since none among my fellows match my height,My head seems raised beyond the heavens’ sight.
Tell me the seed and lineage that I bear,And name the father whose great blood I share.
What shall I say when others ask of me?Speak plainly now and hide no mystery.
And if you keep this hidden from my sight,You shall not live to see another night.”
His mother said: “Then hear me and rejoice;Be not too rash, but listen to my voice.
Your father is great Rostam, battle-tried,The Piltan whose renown spreads far and wide.
From Dastan, Sahm, and Nariman you spring,Renowned stock fit to stand beside a king.
Since the World-Creator set the world in frame,No rider yet has matched your father’s fame.
No peer to Sahm was known beneath the sky;The sphere itself dared not approach so high.”
She brought the letter Rostam sent of old,Three rubies and three heavy bags of gold.
“At birth your father gave these gifts to you,With words that proved your noble lineage true.
Guard these; they prove the lineage you claim,And show that Rostam is your father’s name.”
Then Tahmineh said low: “Now heed me well;There is one danger I must also tell.
Let Afrasiab never learn this thing,From first to last, nor hear whose son you spring.
He is your father’s foe, renowned and feared;All Turan mourns where Rostam has appeared.
If wrath for Rostam turns against the son,He may destroy you for what he has done.
And if your father, from these signs, should hearYou stand among the champions without peer,
He will demand you, call you to his side,And leave your mother wounded when you ride.”
Sohrab replied: “No secret can be sealed;Before the world, the truth will stand revealed.
Old warriors tell of Rostam, glorified;Why should my noble lineage be denied?
I gather from the warlike Turks a forceSo vast no power can turn aside its course.
I cast Kay Kavus from Iran’s high seat,And drive out Tus before my army’s feet.
Gorgin and Gudarz, Giv I shall bring low;Gostaham, Nohzar’s son, and Bahram feel the blow.
I give him gorz and horse, the royal crown,Then seat him where Kay Kavus is cast down.
Then from Iran to Turan I shall ride,And face Afrasiab in all his pride.
I seize Afrasiab’s royal seat in fight,And raise my spearpoint past the sun in height.
I fight like lion till I win renown,And set on you Iran’s imperial crown.
If Rostam is the father, I the son,No crowned king shall remain when this is done.
When sun and moon command the arching sky,Why should a lesser star raise crown on high?”
B8.6
Sohrab Chooses His Charger
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Sohrab needs a horse strong enough to carry him. He tests the herds, pressing many to the ground, until a warrior offers a colt of Rakhsh’s line. Sohrab mounts it, and his grandfather equips him royally for the march on Iran.
36 couplets · Sohrab named 5 times · in the full poem
He said: “You soon shall see what I can do,But first a steed must bear me swift and true.
With iron hoof that shatters hardest stone,A powerful charger, fully strong and grown,
Strong as forged steel, yet swift through open sky,Like fish through sea, like deer that flashes by.
My mighty frame, my gorz, my gopal all,Demand a steed that will not bend or fall.
A warrior must ride to meet his foe;On foot, no champion seeks the battle’s blow.”
His mother heard and raised her thoughtful head,And toward the shining sun her gaze was led.
From mountain, hill, and plain the herdsmen came,And drove all horse herds in like smoke and flame.
They filled the city, brought from every side,That Sohrab choose a steed for war to ride.
When one appeared thick-necked and strong of frame,Sohrab stepped forth to put its strength to shame.
He cast the leather kamand round its neck,Then set his hand its gathered strength to check.
He pressed its back until its belly layUpon the earth; so did its strength give way.
Thus one by one he tried the strongest breed,And many broke beneath his mighty deed.
None proved a steed his battle weight could take;And grief began within the youth to wake.
A warrior from the gathering then drew near,And spoke to Sohrab words for all to hear:
“I have a young colt of noble Rakhsh’s strain,Lion-strong and wind-swift across the plain.
A mighty bay, he speeds across terrain,Like bird on wing before the driving rain.
No horse has matched his strength or rushing pace,No rider yet has found his equal’s trace.
His hoof makes ancient fish-bull weary below;Mountain-bodied, he leaps like lightning’s glow.
On mountain paths he flies as ravens fly,Through sea like waterbird he passes by.
Across the plain he shoots as arrow sped,And overtakes the foe who rides ahead.”
Sohrab laughed; his eager face grew bright,His former troubled mood dissolved in light.
At once they brought the fine-hued charger near,And Sohrab watched its noble form appear.
He tested him; the charger bore the strain,And proved himself fit for the battle plain.
He stroked his neck and girthed the saddle fast,Then mounted, seated like a mountain vast.
Like Bistoon’s peak he towered on the field,And raised a column-spear no man could wield.
He said: “Now such a noble steed is mine,My road to battle opens by design.
I make Kay Kavus’s bright day dark with gloom,And drive his royal glory toward its doom.”
He turned for home and readied warlike gear,His purpose set on Iran, sharp and clear.
From every side the noble-born drew near,Sword-bearing warriors, hearts devoid of fear.
He went before his grandfather and said,“Grant leave and aid for all the road ahead.
I long to ride to Iran without delay,And see my blessed father there one day.”
The king perceived the purpose in his mind,And opened all his stores of every kind.
He gave him crown and throne, the royal gear,A cap and girdle worthy of a peer.
With horses, camels, gold and jewels rare,And ample stores for battle everywhere.
He gave a battle khaftan, weapons bright,And marveled at the milk-fed warrior’s might.
His open hand supplied what war could need,And royal stores equipped him for the deed.
B8.9
Sohrab Fights with Gordafarid
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Gordafarid, daughter of Gazhdaham, arms herself like a man and challenges the invaders. She holds Sohrab off with arrows and spear until he tears off her helmet and ropes her. She talks him into releasing her, slips into the fortress and mocks him from the walls.
84 couplets · Sohrab named 8 times · in the full poem
When word arrived that Hajir had been bound,Gordafarid grieved deeply at the sound.
She cried in grief and drew a bitter sigh,A cold breath rose as sorrow dimmed her eye.
Renowned in battle, rider fierce and famed,The daughter of Gazhdaham was acclaimed.
Gordafarid, peerless in warlike art,Took up her arms with steady hand and heart.
She hid her hair within her jowshan, woundBeneath a Roman helmet iron-bound.
She mounted swift, her armor closely braced,And rode beyond the gates with measured haste.
Like some fierce lion breaking from its lair,She crossed the field with speed and martial air.
A wind-foot charger bore her toward the ranks,Her thunderous cry rolled out along their flanks.
She cried aloud in tones that shook the plain:“What force is this, and who commands this train?
What champion stands among you, bold and strong,To test himself against me, right or wrong?
Who dares to turn against me in the fray,And like a fierce nahang obstruct my way?”
No warrior came; then Sohrab saw her ride,He bit his lip and laughed in sudden pride:
“Another Gur-e-Khar comes to my snare,Drawn by a strength it cannot hope to bear.”
He donned his khaftan, set his helmet right,And rushed at once to meet her in the fight.
He rushed before the maiden, swift and fleet,And drove his charger straight where they would meet.
Gordafarid drew back her tempered bow,And sent her arrows whistling at the foe.
No bird could cross the space before their flight,So thick her arrows veiled the field from sight.
No path remained beneath her arrow rain;She wheeled and struck on either side the plain.
Sohrab felt shame; then anger made him glow,He raised his shield and charged against the foe.
She saw him coming, blazing like a fire,She slung her bow and leveled spear in ire.
Her charger reared, its crest against the cloud,The field beneath its thunder answered loud.
She turned the spearpoint straight toward Sohrab’s chest,And drove with all the fury she possessed.
Then Sohrab raged and leapt with leopard’s speed,And wheeled against her on his charging steed.
Like Azargashasp he blazed upon the field,His deathly spear outstretched, his wrath revealed.
He met her stroke and struck her at the waist;Her armor tore apart beneath his haste.
He swung her from the saddle, light and small,As polo mallet strikes the flying ball.
Though shaken, she held firm; she never shrank,But drew her sword to close upon his flank.
She struck his spear and split its shaft in two,Then turned away and from the struggle flew.
She fled at speed; he gave his dragon rein,And thundered after her across the plain.
He pressed her hard; the world grew dark with dust,And near her shoulder drove with furious thrust.
He seized her helmet as he closed in fight,And tore it free, revealing her to sight.
Her hair fell loose, her face shone clear and bright,Like sudden dawn that breaks the edge of night.
Her head and loosened hair deserved a crown,He stared as shining tresses tumbled down.
He paused and cried: “A woman rides to war!No field has shown me such a sight before.
A daughter from Iran has joined the fray,And met me armed upon the field today.
If maidens such as this ride out in arms,What warriors stand behind them in alarms?
Their mounted chiefs must raise such dust on high,It darkens all the turning wheel of sky.”
He cast his kamand, caught her at the waist,And held her fast before she could make haste.
“Why seek escape?” he said. “What brought you here?No prize like you has ever drawn me near.
Like Gur-e-Khar, you cannot break this snare;By force alone you will not leave my care.”
She saw no path but cunning left to choose,And shaped her words, determined not to lose:
“O lion among warriors, hear me well;Two armies watch, and what they see they tell.
Now that my face and loosened hair are shown,What honor comes from pressing me alone?
Men will declare you drove me from the field,And forced a maiden warrior to yield.
Do not prolong this struggle to your shame,Or let a woman’s battle stain your name.
Let silence hide what happened on this plain,And spare yourself dishonor and disdain.
Let wisdom rule; it is the great man’s art,Invite no blame before these ranks depart.
This fortress, wealth, and all its guarded storeAre yours already; why seek battle more?
The army and the fortress are your prize;Choose peace when peace is offered to the wise.”
She showed her face; her parted lips revealedTheir pearls, a garden of the blest unsealed.
Her eyes were a gazelle’s, her brows an arc,Beneath which heaven opened from the dark.
A cypress seemed to rise within that place,No gardener had grown one with such grace.
Then Sohrab said: “Stand firm by what you swore;You saw my strength upon the field of war.
Trust not these walls, however high they rise;No fortress wall can reach the wheeling skies.
My gopal’s blow will cast them to the ground;My spear will leave their ruined stones around.”
Still in his kamand, she turned her rein,And led him back toward the fortress terrain.
Gazhdaham waited where the gate stood wide,And watched his daughter struggle toward his side.
The gates flung wide; she drew herself inside,Still bound and worn, alive and dignified.
They closed them fast; alarm and grief arose,As word ran through the fortress of their woes.
For Hajir’s bonds and Gordafarid’s plight,The people grieved throughout the troubled night.
Gazhdaham came with nobles in his train,And praised her courage after battle’s strain.
“O lion-hearted chief, we feared for you;Both fight and cunning proved your wisdom true.
No foe has harmed you, nor has marred your name;Thank Yazdan, you are back, and free from shame.”
She laughed, then climbed the rampart’s lofty height,And saw Sohrab still mounted for the fight.
She cried: “O Shah of Turks and Chin, why stay?Turn back your army; ride from here away.”
Sohrab replied: “Fair-faced one, hear me swearBy crown and throne, by sun and moon; beware:
I mean to raze these walls and claim my prize;You will repent those words and mocking eyes.
When helpless in my grasp you writhe in pain,What then becomes of vows? What will remain?
Repentance then will bring you no relief,When turning heaven strips your crown in grief.”
She laughed again and scornfully replied:“No Turk can win himself an Iran bride.
It was not fated I should fall to you;Take no offense; there is no more to do.
Among the Pahlevans you stand alone;Your arms and shoulders make your prowess known.
But when the Shah receives the news one dayThat Turan’s army marches in array,
He will bring Rostam, whom you cannot fight,And all your troops will fall before his might.
What fate will fall upon your head, who knows?Yet pity for your neck and shoulders grows.
What pity if so fine a youth were slain,And fed the leopards on the battle plain.
Do not put too much trust in strength and pride;The foolish ox consumes its very side.
The wiser course is this: withdraw your men,And turn your army toward Turan again.”
Sohrab felt shame, yet thought the fortress wonBefore the rising of another sun.
Below the fortress lay a settled ground,The stronghold rose above that tract around.
He gave the settled fields around for spoil,And let his men lay bare the fertile soil.
Then for a while he held his forces back:“The day grows late; we must suspend attack.
At dawn we raise such dust beneath this wall,That war’s alarms will echo through each hall.”
He turned his charger from the gate again,And rode back to his camp among his men.
B8.16
Sohrab Questions Hajir on Iran’s Chiefs
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From a hilltop Sohrab makes the captive Hajir name the Iranian chiefs by their tents and banners. Hajir names Kavus, Tus, Gudarz, Giv, Fariborz and Guraza, but calls the giant under the dragon banner an unknown ally from Chin, and resolves to die rather than betray Rostam.
113 couplets · Sohrab named 12 times · in the full poem
When morning raised its shield of burnished flame,A tongue of fire from heaven upward came.
Sohrab put on his jowshan, took his steed,A mighty bay charger born for warlike speed.
Across his chest an Indian saber lay,His helm flashed fiercely with the birth of day.
His kamand hung in coil on coil below,Prepared from saddle at the foe to throw.
He climbed a height and scanned the spreading plain,Where Iran’s troops lay stretched in ordered chain.
He summoned Hajir to the rocky height,And fixed him with a gaze as hard as night:
“An arrow always flies straight toward its aim;Let truth, not cunning, govern word and name.
A bending arrow strikes with weakened might;The straight shaft finds its target in its flight.
Speak clearly now; let nothing false intrude,Nor cloak your thought in shadowed servitude.
Tell me the chiefs, the Shah, the troops arrayed;Speak truth, or learn how falsehood is repaid.
Speak truth, and from my hand you shall go free;In every gathering honored you shall be.
I offer wealth beyond what kings bestow;But crooked speech earns chains and prison’s woe.”
Hajir replied: “Ask what you wish to hear;I shall reply, free of deceit or fear.
Why should I twist the truth that I can give?A straight-told word is how the just must live.
No calling stands more honored among menThan keeping faith when truth is asked of them.
Deceit is loss that festers from within;It buys no gain, but multiplies the sin.”
Sohrab replied: “Then answer what I claim,Of every noble chief, each honored name.
Of Giv and Tus, of Gudarz, Bahram bold,Of Rostam; tell me all that can be told.
That brocade court before us richly spread,With leopard tents and elephants ahead,
Seven-hued pavilions rise in royal state;A hundred elephants stand ranked in wait.
A turquoise throne beneath the golden shine,A sun-marked flag and golden moon align.
Who sits enthroned within those guarded walls?”Hajir replied: “The Shah commands those halls.
Before his court the elephants stand massed,And lion-hearted chiefs hold his realm fast.”
“And there,” said he, “upon the right I seeA mass of riders drawn in symmetry.
Black tents enclose them, men in ordered pride,With baggage, troops, and tents on every side.
Behind them elephants stand dense and near,While golden boots flash bright from front to rear.
An elephant is stamped upon their sign;What chief commands beneath that battle line?”
“Tus,” Hajir said, “of Nohzar’s kingly vine;His proven strength in war has made him shine.”
“And there,” said Sohrab, “those red ranks I mark,With lion banners blazing fierce and stark;
Their lances burn; their jeweled banners glow,While steadfast warriors guard each ordered row.
What chief commands that blazing battle band?”Hajir replied: “Gudarz directs that stand.
Son of Keshvad, in war of proven skill,Whose strength and counsel bend all things to will.
Twice forty sons attend his lion line;No force withstands their onset or design.”
“Now there,” said Sohrab, “green pavilions rise,With ordered troops drawn up before my eyes.
A throne is raised where Kaveh’s flag appears;A giant warrior sits among his peers.
His shoulders vast, his stature raised in height,He stands a head above the gathered might.
Before him stands a charger fierce and tall,A beast that seems to thunder over all.
The charger roars until the ranks recoil;You would think the sea beneath its feet would boil.
His kamand hangs down to the charger’s feet,Prepared for any champion it may meet.
Armored elephants stand before his place,While he sits restless, fire upon his face.
No man in Iran rises to his height;No horse like his appears within my sight.
A dragon marks the banner at his side;What chief is this of such commanding pride?
Above the dragon, on the spearpoint high,A golden lion gleams against the sky.”
Hajir thought deeply: “If I now reveal,This youth may strike before our wounds can heal.
Far better hide him than betray the land;Let silence guard the strength at Iran’s hand.”
He answered: “One from Chin came as a guest,A notable man the Shah received and blessed.”
Sohrab pressed on: “Then speak and name the man.”Hajir replied: “I do not know, nor can.
I was within the fortress when he came;That is the reason I cannot tell his name.”
Sohrab grew troubled, searching still in doubt;His mother’s signs stood plain and all about.
He saw them, every one, upon that field,Yet still his eyes refused what they revealed.
Again, he pressed, but fate had sealed his sight;Truth stood just past the boundary of his might.
“Whose camp lies there,” he asked, “so far apart,With wolf-marked banner raised above its heart?
There horsemen, elephants, and ranks array;The karnay’s cry rolls thunder through the day.
Its golden wolf-head rises toward the height,A throne within, with servants robed in light.”
Hajir replied: “There Giv commands the band,A noble chief well honored in the land.
Son of Gudarz, foremost of his line,Rostam’s own son-in-law, in war he shines.”
“And there,” said he, “that white pavilion gleams,With ordered men arrayed in martial streams,
More than a thousand horse before it glow,With shield- and javelin-bearers, row on row.
Within, one sits high on ivory throne;What prince is this whose rank is clearly shown?
A teakwood seat on ivory, ornate;Rank after rank of servants stand and wait.”
Hajir replied: “There Fariborz you see,The Shah’s own son of royal pedigree.”
“And there,” said Sohrab, “those yellow lines I mark,With saffron banners burning through the dark,
A boar is stamped upon the foremost sign,A silver moon crowns high the staff’s design.
What warrior leads that force?” Then Hajir cried:“Guraza leads, and holds firm at their side.
He comes from Givgan stock, alert and wise;Through pain and hardship, steadfast he will rise.”
Thus Sohrab sought the signs his father bore,While Hajir hid it, as he had before.
The World-Creator wrote what was to be;No hand escapes the course of destiny.
Again he asked of Rostam’s form and sign,The towering steed, the kamand’s looping twine.
Hajir replied: “I hide no name from you;That man from Chin is one I never knew.”
Sohrab grew sharp: “You hide what should be shown;You veil a truth that surely must be known.
That chief of chiefs could never stay concealed;His form would mark him out across the field.
You say he guards the marches of the land;Then why is he not here to take command?”
Hajir replied: “He feasts in gardens fair,With wine and song, and free of battle’s care.”
Sohrab said: “Then shame must mark his name;He feasts while others march to meet the flame.
If he were here, he would lead the van in might,And stand where fiercest warriors join the fight.
If Rostam feasts while all the chiefs draw near,Then every tongue will turn to laugh and jeer.”
Sohrab continued: “Hear me and be plain;I ask but once; the truth I would obtain.
If you reveal the truth and guide me right,I will raise your rank and set your fortune bright.
I will fill your hands with gold beyond your need,And free your life from danger by the deed.
But if you hide the truth I now demand,Your life will fall beneath my single hand.”
The Mobad said, when wisdom he unsealed:“A word held back is like a gem concealed,
Still held within the stone, beyond all sight;Once freed, it shines a jewel clear and bright.”
Hajir replied: “He seeks the strongest foe;The mightiest fall beneath his battle blow.
His anvil-breaking gorz can crush a band;Two hundred mighty bands fall at his hand.
Whoever meets him when the battle cries,May see his severed head hurled toward the skies.
No elephant alive can match his might;No champion stands before him in the fight.
Beside the dust that Rakhsh can raise in course,The Nile is nothing underneath his horse.
A hundred warriors’ strength is in his frame;No other man can bear so vast a name.
He towers higher than a lofty tree;No man beside him stands in symmetry.
When wrath consumes him in the battle’s course,No lion, elephant, or man can check his force.
When Rostam drives across the battle plain,No ordered rank before him can remain.”
Sohrab replied: “Your praise has passed all bound;No man so vast within the world is found.
Then woe to Gudarz, Keshvad’s noble line,If one like you should bear that house’s sign.
Why praise this Rostam past all measured worth?No man can carry such a fame on earth.
You make a giant greater than mankind;Such fear has clouded judgment in your mind.
Your fear is fire before the laughing sea;The ocean rests from any terror free.
What warriors have you seen in battle’s course?You have not heard the hoofbeats of a horse.
When the green sea rises, fire loses breath;Its racing flame sinks powerless toward death.
And darkness sleeps when from the eastern heightThe sun draws forth its sword of living light.”
Hajir then thought: “If truth I now reveal,This youth will break what none could hope to heal.
Better I die than loose this hidden flame,And bring on Iran everlasting shame.
If Rostam falls, no avenger can remain;Then Kavus’s throne may pass beneath his reign.
To die with honor is a worthy lot;To live while foes rejoice, a lasting blot.
Let warriors rise when I have met my death;Let vengeance follow on my final breath.
Besides myself, old Gudarz still can callOn eighty valiant sons within his hall.
Giv, Bahram, Rohham, Shidush will remain,And none will leave my blood upon the plain.”
Hajir stood firm and would not shift his ground;In silence still, his purpose held him bound.
He chose to die rather than tell the truth,And shield Iran from this destructive youth.
While cypress roots stand fast within the glade,The pheasant need not scent the common blade.
Then speaking out, he said: “Why seek that name?What need compels this restless search for fame?
You ask what I know not, then threaten blood;Seek no false pretext for a crimson flood.
You seek to break Piltan upon the field;He is no easy man to force to yield.
Tahamtan will not yield beneath your blow;Seek not his battle; he will lay you low.”
B8.18
Rostam and Sohrab Meet in Combat
👨👦❓🏇🐎⚔️🗡️⚡🔨💥🩸🪢💪👥⚔️🌃🤝⏳17 emoji · the whole poem in emoji →
Rostam and Sohrab fight with short spears, swords, gorz and arrows, then grapple, but neither can unseat the other. Sohrab strikes Rostam’s shoulder and mocks his age. Each then ravages the other’s army, and they part at nightfall to fight again at dawn.
53 couplets · Sohrab named 7 times · in the full poem
Sohrab, still musing on his mother’s word,Rode out with spear, his troubled spirit stirred.
They chose a narrow field, hard-packed and tight,And drove short spears together in the fight.
Their points were shattered and their shafts were shorn,Then both turned reins to left as shafts were torn.
Then wheeling round, with Indian blades they closed,And sparks like lightning from their weapons rose.
Their blades rang out like thunder, stroke on stroke,As if the Day of Doom upon them broke.
Then each took up the gorz with crushing might,And bent the iron in the press of fight.
Their horses’ bargostvans all fell and tore,While jowshans ripped beneath the blows they bore.
Their chargers reeled beneath the iron hail,The riders strained, their battered jowshans frail.
Their jowshans rent, their strength turned into pain;Both hands and arms grew weak beneath the strain.
With sweat-drenched limbs and mouths all choked with dust,Their tongues cracked dry beneath the battle’s thrust.
At length they parted, wearied to the bone,The father in grief, his son with courage flown.
O world! Your workings none can understand;Both whole and broken lie within your hand.
No love arose within that deadly space;Reason stood far; affection hid its face.
The Gur-e-Khars, the fish beneath the foam,Know their own young, however far they roam.
But man, through toil and desire led astray,Knows not his child when standing in his way.
Then Rostam thought: “I never yet have seenA nahang come to war with force so keen.
Compared with this, the White Div’s fight was light;This youth has made me doubt my former might.
The hand of one yet green upon the field,No famed or noble chief, has made me yield.
A youth unknown among the ranks of fameHas tested all the strength that bears my name.
Long years have brought me to my fill of strife;Two armies watch us struggle life for life.”
Their steeds refreshed, their bows restrung for war,They wheeled and loosed their arrows as before.
The young and old stood equal in the test;No age gave either strength or ease or rest.
Jowshan, khaftan, Babr-e Bayan turned each course;No arrow pierced the armor with its force.
With troubled hearts, they seized each other’s belt,And grappled hard beneath the strain they felt.
Now Rostam, had he seized Black Mountain’s height,Would tear it free with overwhelming might.
Yet when he grasped his belt to cast him down,The youth sat firm upon the saddle’s crown.
His body yielded nothing to the strain,And Rostam’s practiced grip could nothing gain.
He loosed the girdle, stunned by what he found,And stared at Sohrab, rooted to the ground.
Both lion-warriors, weary from the toil,Drew back exhausted, sick of war’s turmoil.
Sohrab raised high his heavy gorz again,And spurred his steed to strike at Rostam then.
He struck the hero’s shoulder, gorz in hand,Yet Rostam bore the pain and still could stand.
Sohrab laughed loud: “You cannot bear the blowsA champion gives when battle round you grows.
Your horse seems an ass beneath you in fight;Your hands alone still show a warrior’s might.
Though cypress-tall, old age is on your head;Youth makes an old man foolish in its stead.”
Each weakened under what the other dealt;The field grew narrow from the force they felt.
Each, humbled by the other, turned away,Troubled in heart and spirit from the fray.
Then Rostam, leopard-like, attacked their side,And scattered Turanian troops both far and wide.
Then Sohrab struck at Iran’s gathered force,And loosed among their ranks his battle-horse.
His gorz struck many famed men to the ground,And broken ranks fled wildly all around.
Wolf-like, he scattered every rank alike,And none could stand before his deadly strike.
Then Rostam’s heart grew dark with inward dread;“Kavus shall suffer from this youth,” he said.
“This newly risen Turk in khaftan strong,With arms like these, will bring us harm before long.”
He hastened back toward camp with anxious mind,And there beheld the slaughter left behind.
He saw Sohrab amid the shattered dead,The earth beneath him ruby-dark and red.
His spearpoint, khaftan, hands were red with blood;Hunt-drunk he seemed amid that crimson flood.
Then Rostam, raging like a lion, cried:“Bloodthirsty Turk! Whom have you now defied?
Why stretch your hand against the whole array,Like wolf among the flock that bars your way?”
Sohrab replied: “Turan’s army had no shareIn this affair; no guilt was theirs to bear.
You turned against them first and sought the fight;No man among them challenged you outright.”
“The day grows dark,” said Rostam. “Night is near;Tomorrow’s sword will make the outcome clear.
This field holds gallows, pulpit, both arrayed;The shining world lies underneath the blade.
May you not die, who lift the blade so youngThat still the milk is scented on your tongue.
At break of day our vengeful swords shall testWhat the World-Creator wills; till then, we rest.”
B8.20
Sohrab Casts Rostam Down
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Sohrab senses that his opponent is Rostam, but Houman denies it. At dawn Sohrab offers peace and asks his name; Rostam refuses. Sohrab throws him, but Rostam invents a rule of two falls and is let go. Rostam prays for his old strength.
95 couplets · Sohrab named 12 times · in the full poem
The sun rose bright; the raven of the nightFolded her black-plumed wings and left the height.
Then Rostam donned his Babr-e Bayan bright,And armed his chest to meet the coming fight.
He mounted Rakhsh, a dragon fierce and fleet,Whose fury shook the earth beneath his feet.
Two farsangs lay between each army’s place;No warrior dared to cross the empty space.
An iron helmet fitted to his head,Great Rostam rode toward the field of dread.
All bitterness is born of grasping greed;May kinship never serve that bitter need.
Young Sohrab drank among his gathered men,While rud strings sounded; then he spoke again:
“That lion-warrior who has faced my mightIs like myself in stature and in height.
In shoulder, arm, and breast we seem the same,As though one hand had shaped us both in frame.
His foot, his stirrup, and his rider’s seatAwake a tenderness I cannot defeat.
I mark those signs and feel affection rise;A sudden shame comes warm across my eyes.
My mother spoke of signs that I now see;They rise again and stand revealed to me.
My heart forewarns me he may be that man,Whose name is honored wide in every land.
Few bear such likeness; few could stand so tall;No common warrior answers to that call.
I fear to strike; what if this man should beThe one my mother named with tears to me?
How could I raise my hand against his face,If he and I are bound by blood and race?”
Then Houman said: “I faced him in the field;I heard what Mazandaran was forced to yield.
That rider’s Rakhsh has something of the same;Yet strikes the ground not as the true one came,
Nor leaves the selfsame print upon the ground;In hoof and gait, true Rakhsh is not so found.”
At break of dawn the sun began to rise,And waking warriors opened battle-eyes.
Sohrab put on his khaftan for the fight;His head held war, his heart the feast’s delight.
He came roaring across the battlefield,An ox-headed gorz his mighty hand would wield.
He came to Rostam smiling, free of guile,As though last night they shared the feast awhile.
“How passed your night? How fares your strength today?Why turn again toward strife and bloody fray?
Cast down your gorz and sword; lay vengeance by;Let hatred fade and anger’s fire die.
Come, let us leave this battlefield aside,And feast together, seated side by side.
Let wine restore the spirit and the mind,And leave the rage of war and death behind.
Before the World-Creator turn from blood,And choose a path kept clean of war’s dark flood.
My heart turns toward you with a strange accord;Shame wets my face before I lift the sword.
Reveal yourself; concealment brings no gain;A worthy man should speak his name out plain.
Tell me your lineage, speak and make it known;What house and heritage you call your own.
Are you not Rostam, sprung from Zal’s great line,Whose glory through the ages still shall shine?”
Then Rostam answered, steady, cold, and clear:“You speak too boldly of a name you hear.
Last night we spoke, not thus, but of the testOf strength in wrestling, where the brave are pressed.
Do not suppose such words can lead me wrong;I will not be deceived, however strong.
Though you are young, I am no child to cheat,Nor one to cast my arms down in defeat.
I stand for combat, firm in what I do;The end shall show what fate has set for you.
I have seen fortune rise and fall from view;I trust no trick, nor any scheme untrue.”
Then Sohrab’s face grew hard, his voice grew cold:“You have rejected all that I have told.
I wished your life might end at home in bed,Not here beneath a warrior’s hand lie dead.
I would have spared you from a soldier’s end,And left your kin the proper rites to tend.
But now, if Yazdan has decreed it so,My hand shall strike and lay your body low.”
They left their steeds and stepped upon the ground,Then faced each other where no man stood round.
They tied their battle-steeds to stones nearby,Their hearts oppressed beneath the open sky.
They grappled then like lions locked in strain,Their bodies pressed in fury and in pain.
From dawn they struggled, neither gave nor bent,Each testing strength with full and fierce intent.
Their sweat and blood ran freely in the fight,Yet neither yielded ground nor broke outright.
At last Sohrab surged forward like a wave,With sudden force no mortal strength could brave.
He seized the girdle with a sudden strength,And wrenched so hard the field shook through its length.
He gave a cry that shook the battleground;It seemed earth’s face had split beneath the sound.
He raised the hero, hurled him to the ground,With all his mighty weight and force profound.
He pinned him like a lion with its kill,A male Gur-e-Khar helpless to its will.
Dust filled the air and covered Rostam’s face,As Sohrab held him firmly in that place.
Then Sohrab drew his water-blue khanjar bright,Prepared to sever Rostam’s head outright.
But Rostam cried: “O lion-catcher, stay;O kamand-thrower, hear what I must say.
For gorz and sword and arrow, custom knowsA law our fathers kept against their foes.
One fall alone gives no man leave to kill;A second throw must prove the victor still.
Only the second fall permits the blow;Then custom grants the right to slay the foe.
No man will call this killing foul or base;Among our ranks, such custom has its place.”
So Rostam spoke, to save his life and breath,And turn aside the hand that threatened death.
By cunning still he sought to break awayFrom dragon’s grasp and live another day.
The young man bowed to what the elder said,And took the words as truth within his head.
One cause was courage, second was the time;The third his javanmardi at its prime.
He turned away into the desert wide,Where antelope went crossing at his side,
And gave himself to hunting all that day,Nor thought of him he left upon the clay.
After a time came Houman to his tent,And questioned him on how the combat went.
Sohrab described the struggle from the start;Then Houman cried with terror in his heart:
“Have you grown weary of your life and name?Why cast away the fruit of strength and fame?
Your stature, stirrup, strength deserved more thought;Why loose the lion you had fought and caught?
The lion you had held within your hand,Now freed, will rise again and make his stand.
You let him go when death was in your grasp;Now fear the day you draw your final gasp.
Tomorrow’s fight will show what this has cost;Such foolish mercy may leave all things lost.
A wise man once declared this warning plain:No foe is small, nor any threat is vain.”
He spoke; then Houman gave up hope for him,And stood amazed, his heart with sorrow dim.
Yet Sohrab said: “Put all such fears away;Tomorrow’s fight will show what fate will say.
He will return, and then you all shall seeHis neck beneath the yoke imposed by me.”
He turned aside, still angered by his choice,And went to camp, still hearing Houman’s voice.
But Rostam rose, a cypress as before,Released from Sohrab’s grip and death’s dark door.
He sought a running stream with weary tread,Like one whose soul returned to one thought dead.
He drank and washed the dust from head and frame,Then prayed before the World-Creator’s name.
He did not know what sun and moon designed,Nor what the hidden portion they assigned.
Nor how the turning heavens would descend,And strip his crown when fortune reached its end.
Men say the Maker gave him strength so great,His feet sank deep in stone beneath his weight.
That boundless strength became a crushing load;He prayed to Yazdan as he walked the road.
Pure Yazdan heard and eased his mountain frame,And curbed the strength no mortal force could tame.
But facing Sohrab, fear had pierced his heart;He sought the strength that once had set him apart.
He prayed once more: “Pure Yazdan, strength restore;Grant me the power that once I held before.”
Pure Yazdan heard, and strength returned, and grew;His limbs regained the mighty force they knew.
He turned toward battle, pale and deep in thought,And sought again the youthful foe he fought.
Like a mad elephant Sohrab charged the foe,Kamand on arm, and in his hand his bow.
His lion’s roar rolled over all the ground,His stallion made the earth and world resound.
When Rostam saw him charging in his wrath,He stared in wonder, weighed him on his path.
When Sohrab saw him, youthful pride arose;He marked his farr and strength before the blows.
“You slipped alive from my lion’s grasp;Why come again where these same hands can clasp?
Why have you come again before my sight?You turn your face from truth and what is right.”
B8.21
The Tragedy of Sohrab
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Rostam throws Sohrab and stabs him. Dying, Sohrab warns that his father will avenge him, and the token on his arm reveals the truth. Sohrab asks mercy for his army and for Hajir. Rostam nearly kills Hajir and then himself, and Gudarz restrains him.
115 couplets · Sohrab named 12 times · in the full poem
They tied their steeds while hostile fortune wheeled,And doom above them shaped what fate concealed.
When fate grows harsh and lifts its hidden hand,Hard stone grows soft beneath its stern command.
They closed in wrestling, belt to belt they strained,Each testing what the other’s strength retained.
Sohrab’s strength seemed fettered in the fight,As though high heaven had bound his arms outright.
Then Rostam, troubled, seized him by the neck,The warlike nahang, holding him in check.
The gallant youth, whose time had reached its end,Felt strength depart and could no more contend.
Then like a lion striking down its prey,Rostam dashed Sohrab upon earth that day.
He knew the youth would rise if left alive,And drew his khanjar lest he should revive.
He struck and opened wide the fallen breast;By that dark blow, fate’s sentence stood expressed.
Who thirsts for blood and stains the water-blue bladeShall find that Time has thirst for him repaid,
And every hair upon his body thenShall turn into a khanjar’s point again.
Sohrab writhed and breathed a bitter sigh,Then left all thought of good and ill to die.
He said: “This came upon me from my deed;And Time placed in your hand what fate decreed.
You bear no guilt; crooked Time’s commandRaised me, then struck me down with its own hand.
My peers will make a mockery of my name,That one so tall lies dust-bound in his shame.
My mother told me how to know my sire;I sought him long with hope and deep desire.
I searched in love, and now in grief I die,My labor lost beneath this turning sky.
My quest is vain; in vain my labor wrought;I die without one sight of him I sought.
Though he were fish concealed beneath the sea,Or hidden deep where night itself might be,
Or like a star beyond all mortal sight,My father still would rise to avenge my plight.
When brick becomes the pillow for my head,My father will avenge this blood I shed.
Some warrior yet will bear to him this claim:‘Your son who sought you lies in grief and shame.’”
Then Rostam heard, and all his senses failed;The world grew dark; his face and spirit paled.
He fell upon the ground in stunned despair,And lay there senseless, stripped of strength and care.
At last he rose, his voice a broken thread:“What sign of Rostam do you bear?” he said.
“I am that Rostam; let my name depart;No warrior speak it when my life shall part.
And let Zal, son of Sahm, sit down this dayAnd mourn my death, and mourn my name away!”
He tore his hair and raged in anguish wild,While near him lay the stricken, dying child.
When Sohrab saw him thus, his senses fled;He swooned, then woke and raised his weary head:
“If you are Rostam, then you struck me dead,By harshness and blind anger you were led.
I gave you every sign in every way,Yet not one grain of love was stirred today.
Undo my jowshan, bare my arm and seeThe token that my mother gave to me.
When koust resounded as I left her door,My mother came with blood-streaked cheeks before.
My leaving wounded deep her loving breast;She bound this token on my arm and pressed:
‘This came from your father; guard it well,And see what use its hidden sign may tell.’
Now it has served when service comes too late;The son lies shamed before his father’s fate.”
Rostam undid the khaftan, saw the sign,Then tore his clothes, undone by grief’s design.
“O youth slain by my hand,” he cried in pain,“Praised in each gathering, known across the plain!”
He tore his hair and cast dust on his head;His face ran wet with tears for one near dead.
“This pain,” said Sohrab, “deepens without end;Why weep? What gain is left, what can it mend?
What profit lies in grief that comes too late?The deed is done; this was the hand of fate.”
The warriors waited, silent, cold, and numb;As daylight waned, still Rostam did not come.
Then twenty men were sent to learn the truth,To seek the fate of hero and of youth.
They found both horses standing in the plain,Dust-covered, waiting by the field of pain.
But Rostam was not seated on his steed;They feared the hero slain by Sohrab’s deed.
They thought that Rostam must have met his doom,And turned to Kavus wrapped in fear and gloom.
They went to Kavus, troubled and afraid,And told him what they saw with hearts dismayed:
“The field lies silent; Rostam is not found!”A cry of grief and terror spread around.
The camp fell into tumult, loud with fear;No man could say what fate had brought them here.
Then Kavus bade the buq and koust ring loud,And summoned Tus as dread swept through the crowd.
He said: “Send one swift rider toward the fray,To learn what Sohrab’s battle holds today.
If Rostam falls, what chief in Iran’s bandCould face that youth alone and make a stand?
We must attack at once with all our might,For none can face him singly in the fight.”
Amid the tumult Sohrab spoke his partTo Rostam, who was wounded to the heart:
“My day has passed; death waits beside me here,And all I hoped for fades as death draws near.
The fate of Turan now is changed for me;See that the Shah leaves them from battle free.
They trusted me and followed at my call;Let not a single one of them now fall.
I gave them promises and hopes before;Do not let grief now reach them any more.
How could I know, renowned and mighty one,My father’s hand would end his very son?
Within the fortress one brave man I bound,Caught in my kamand when I took that ground.
I asked him many times for signs of you;Your image stood before my eyes in view.
Yet all his answers led my thought astray;His words drove hope from me and dimmed the day.
Find which Iranian warrior he may be;Whatever passed, from vengeance set him free.
Find him, but let no vengeance strike his head;Let not my death bring further bloodshed.
I saw in you the signs my mother named,Yet my own eyes denied what they proclaimed.
My evil star decreed what fate would be:My father’s hand would bring my death to me.
I came like lightning; now like wind I fly;So brief the road that carried me to die.
Perhaps in heaven I shall see you yet,And meet you free of grief, with no regret.”
Grief closed great Rostam’s breath; his heart burned red,And tears like blood ran from his eyes instead.
He mounted Rakhsh, his face with anguish stained,Cold sighs upon his lips, his heart blood-drained.
He rode before the army with a cry,His heart in torment for the deed gone by.
The Iranians saw him and bowed face to ground,Their foreheads pressed to earth in ranks around.
They praised the Maker, thankful for his grace:Their champion lived and had returned in place.
They saw his dusty head, his garments torn,His breast all wounded and his spirit worn.
They questioned him: “What grief has struck you so?For whom does such a flood of anguish flow?”
He told the dreadful wonder he had done:His own right hand had wounded his own son.
They raised one cry; then Rostam’s senses fled,And senseless fell amid the grief they spread.
Then Rostam told the chiefs: “This grief has grown;I have no heart or body of my own.
Seek no more war with Turan on this plain;The evil I have done today is enough pain.”
Then Zavareh came near with garments rent,His body bruised, his spirit grief-bent.
When Rostam saw his brother in that state,He told what Sohrab said beneath his fate.
“I rue the deed my aged hand has done;No punishment can match the wrong begun.
In old age I have slain my very heir,And cut the root of one so young and fair.
I tore the young man’s liver with my blade;May heaven weep for him whom I have laid.”
He sent to Houman then this stern command:“The sword of vengeance sheathed shall firmly stand.
You now must guard the Turanian array;Keep watch upon them through the coming day.
No battle lies between us now or here;There is no need for further speech or spear.
Through your ill nature you concealed his name,And cast my soul and sight alike in flame.”
Then Rostam called Zavareh to his side:“My clear-souled brother, go with him,” he cried.
“Go with him onward to the river’s bend,And let no harm come to a foe or friend.”
Zavareh went at once across the plain,Still bearing in his heart his brother’s pain.
He gave to Houman Rostam’s message whole,And spoke each word entrusted to his soul.
Then Houman answered: “One man caused this blight:Hajir concealed the chief from Sohrab’s sight.
Sohrab sought his father’s signs in vain;Hajir withheld them, joining grief to pain.
His silence brought this ruin in its stead;For Sohrab’s blood, the man should lose his head.”
Zavareh turned and brought the answer back,And told the words that set his heart off track.
At Hajir’s deed suspicion filled his breast;He knew concealment drove the fatal quest.
Rostam stood stunned; the world went dark with grief,And anguish surged through him without relief.
He strode to Hajir, seized him by the gown,Then with one furious wrench he hurled him down.
He drew a water-blue khanjar bright,And meant to sever Hajir’s head outright.
The nobles crowded close with urgent plea,And pulled Hajir from death and set him free.
Then Rostam left that place, his spirit torn,And came again to where his son lay worn.
The chiefs went with him, sorrow in each face:Tus, Gudarz, Gostaham approached the place.
The gathered army raised its voice in prayerFor that beloved youth whom death would snare.
“May Yazdan alone bring healing to his plight,And make these crushing sorrows turn to light.”
Then Rostam took a khanjar in his hand,To sever his own head there on the sand.
The chiefs clung fast and held the hero tight,While blood-like tears ran down before his sight.
Then Gudarz said: “What profit can you gainBy filling all the world with smoke and pain?
Though you should wound yourself a hundredfold,What ease would reach the youth whom death may hold?
If any span of life remains to stay,He still will live; do not throw yours away.
But if the youth must leave this mortal sphere,Look through the world; who lives forever here?
Before death all of us are hunted prey,Whether crown or helmet guards the head today.
When each one’s hour arrives, death draws him hence;What follows afterward escapes our sense.
Who lives and never feels the grief of death?Do not consume yourself while you have breath.
Whether the road be long or swiftly crossed,Companions part at last, and all is lost.”
B8.23
Rostam’s Lament for Sohrab
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As Rostam goes to plead with Kavus, word comes that Sohrab is dead. Rostam laments, dreading the grief of Tahmineh and the reproach of Zal and Rudabeh, and burns his own pavilion. The poet reflects on heaven’s blindness. Kavus consoles Rostam and renounces vengeance on the Turanians.
61 couplets · Sohrab named 3 times · in the full poem
Rostam had called for cloth of woven gold,And bade them spread it round him, fold on fold.
They laid the wounded youth on silken bed,Then Rostam hastened back to where he bled.
A rider overtook him on the track,And brought the bitter news that called him back.
“Sohrab has left the wide world for the grave;A coffin, not a palace, does he crave.”
The father gave a cold and bitter sigh,And rubbed his lashes till blood filled his eye.
He sprang from Rakhsh and cast dust on his head,His helmet cast aside beside the dead.
The chiefs around him raised a mourning cry,And wept for Sohrab underneath the sky.
He said: “O youth, exalted in your birth,A peerless warrior walking on this earth,
Not sun nor moon shall see your equal rise,Nor crown, helm, cuirass, throne beneath the skies.
Has any man endured a grief like mine,To slay his son in age’s late decline?
From mighty Sahm the horseman came your race;Your mother too was born in royal place.
I, who in valor stood above all men,Seemed but a child beside your prowess then.
May both these hands be severed for this deed;May dark dust be the only seat I need.
What shall I say to her who bore this son?What words can tell her what my hand has done?
Who will go forth and tell her of this day,And break her heart with words none dare to say?
What cause can I give for this fatal blow,That slew the guiltless son I did not know?
What father ever played so dark a part?Harsh blame will follow me and wound my heart.
So young, so wise, so valiant was he made;And I have struck him down and stilled his blade.
And what of her, the mother left behind?What grief will seize her heart, what torment bind?
What will her father say in bitter painOf one so young, still free of guilt or stain?
They all will curse the line from which I came,And call me faithless, cruel, devoid of shame.
Who could believe one fair and young in yearsWould grow so tall and lead an army’s spears?
He grew like cypress, set his heart on war,And turned my day to darkness evermore.”
He bade them bring rich brocade for the dead,And veil the face from which all life had fled.
All hopes and cities once before him spreadWere narrowed now to one small coffin’s bed.
They bore him from the field with solemn tread,And toward his father’s pavilion led.
The whole army cast dust upon each head,And mourned the cypress lying cold and dead.
They set the royal pavilion aflame,And fed the fire with splendor in his name.
Seven-colored brocades fed the pyre;The throne and leopard saddle joined the fire.
A cry rose up, and Rostam’s tears would pour:“No horseman like you shall be seen in war.
Woe for your strength, your wisdom, and your grace!Woe for your form, your stature, and your face!
Torn from your mother, you lie dead apart;Your father bears the mark upon his heart.”
He tore the earth with both his nails, and weptDown tears of blood, and rent the robes he kept.
He cried: “Zal and Rudabeh will cry,‘You struck your youthful son and let him die!’
For I had strength to strike my son that day,And with my khanjar tore his liver away.
What plea can I present to ease their pain?What words can heal the wound that will not wane?
What will the chiefs say when this tale is known?I uprooted the garden’s cypress, fully grown.”
The warriors of Kavus gathered round,And sat beside him mourning on the ground.
The chiefs gave counsel, sitting near his side,But grief for his dear child would not subside.
One hand of heaven holds the crown on high;The other, the kamand for those who fly.
The one who sits enthroned in wealth and lightIs dragged down low before another night.
Why love this world, when all must pass away,And none may choose how long they are to stay?
Though thoughts of treasure lengthen day by day,We turn at last and crumble into clay.
If heaven knows the ruin that it makes,Its brain is empty in the course it takes.
Know rather that it has no path in mind;No “how” or “why” can reach its turning, blind.
Then do not weep too long for those who go;What comes at journey’s end, we do not know.
The Shah, when told, came near with all his train,And spoke to Rostam in his bitter pain:
“From Alborz’ peak to leaf upon the reed,The turning sphere sweeps all, and pays no heed.
Set not your heart on dust that fades away;Some linger long; some soon complete their day.
Take counsel now and let your heart find peace;Give ear to wisdom; let this mourning cease.
Though you strike heaven down upon the ground,Or set the world aflame from bound to bound,
You cannot find the one whom death has crowned;His soul in another realm is now found.
From far I saw his neck and stature tall,His mighty gopal, towering over all.
Time raised him with an army to this plain;Here by your hand his mortal life was slain.
What remedy remains? What can you do?How long will grief consume the life in you?”
Then Rostam said: “My Sohrab’s day is done;Yet Houman waits beneath the setting sun.
Turan’s chiefs and some men of Chin behindRemain; let no resentment fill your mind.
Zavareh shall lead their army safe from harm,By Yazdan’s power, and by the royal arm.”
Then Kavus said: “Renowned in every fight,This grief has veiled your face and quenched its light.
Though they raised smoke from Iran in the fray,And brought us wounds and sorrow on their way,
Your grief has filled my heart; I now forgoAll vengeance on the men who brought us woe.”
B8.25
Tahmineh Hears of Sohrab’s Death
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News of Sohrab’s death reaches Samangan. Tahmineh tears and burns her hair and embraces her son’s horse, arms and robe. She gives his wealth to the poor, mourns for a year and dies. Bahram the eloquent warns against loving what death takes.
62 couplets · Sohrab named 2 times · in the full poem
A cry rang through Turan: “Sohrab is slain!He fell in battle on the blood-stained plain!”
The news then reached Samangan’s grieving king,Who tore his robes and mourned the dreadful thing.
The tidings reached Tahmineh with a blow:“Your son lies slain; his father struck him low.”
She seized her robe and tore it from her side,Her beauty shone through grief she could not hide.
She raised a cry of anguish, fierce and deep,Then swooned, revived, and sank again to weep.
Her long hair, coiled like kamand in her hand,She tore it from the roots, strand after strand.
Blood-tears ran down her face in streams of red,Again she swooned and fell as one near dead.
She cast dark dust upon her head in dread,And bit her arms until they freely bled.
She set the fire against her face and hair,And called her lost son’s name in wild despair.
“Where are you now, my soul, my heart, my breath?Now turned to dust and laid in blood and death?
I watched the road and waited day by day,And thought: ‘Perhaps he journeys home this way.’
I said: ‘He wanders far but will return,And find his father, as his hopes still burn.
He will come home with father found at last,And all his lonely wandering will be past.’
How could I know, my son, how you had died:Your father’s khanjar tore your liver-side?
He saw your face, your stature, and your hair,Yet for your noble form he had no care.
He spared no pity for your waist in strife;His sword tore through you and destroyed your life.
I raised you at my breast through nights and days,And watched you grow in strength and noble ways.
And now your form lies cold, your lifeblood drained,A winding sheet is all that you have gained.
Whom shall I hold now close against my breast?Who now shall bring my restless heart to rest?
Who shall I turn to, now that you are slain?To whom confide this grief, this endless pain?
Woe for your body, soul, your eyes, your light,Now laid in dust, far from your palace bright!
O lion, strength of armies, battle-brave,You sought your father, and you found a grave.
Hope turned to grief, and all your promise fled;You sleep beneath the dust among the dead.
Before his khanjar tore your silver side,Why did cruel fate let truth remain denied?
Why did you hide the token from his sight?Why not declare your name before the fight?
I told you every sign your sire would show;Why did you doubt the signs you came to know?
Without you now I live consumed by grief,No living soul can grant me true relief.
Why did I not go with you on your way,To stand beside you on that fateful day?
Had I been with you, he would know my face,And love would rise between you in that place.
He would not raise his spear against your side,Nor tear the liver-place where you have died.”
She spoke, then struck her face and tore her hair,And filled all hearts with sorrow and despair.
Her cries drew tears from everyone who heard;In every heart her grief was deeply stirred.
Her senses fled; she fell upon the floor,And lay as one whose life would breathe no more.
Her blood ran cold; she lay without a breath,Her body still, as one possessed by death.
Then she revived and called again her son,While blood-dark tears across the floor would run.
She brought his crown and wept above its gold,And clasped his throne, recalling hopes of old.
She cried: “O royal tree cut down in youth!”And bent beneath the harshness of the truth.
She brought his charger, swift of foot and strong,The steed that bore him proudly through the throng.
She clasped its head and kissed it in despair;The world stood wondering at the grief laid bare.
She rubbed her face and hair against its feet,Beneath the hooves her blood and tears would meet.
She took his robe and pressed it to her breast,As though her son within its folds might rest.
Her lashes bled and turned the earth to red;Through blood and dust she rolled beside the dead.
She brought his armor, bow, and battle gear,His sword, spear, gorz; each relic held so dear.
She brought his golden bridle, burnished shield,And struck her head against them where she kneeled.
She brought his kamand, eighty armspans long,And looped it round her neck, lamenting wrong.
She took his helm and jowshan, held them dear,And cried, “O battle-seeking lion, hear!”
She took his sword and reached his noble steed,And cut its tail in mourning for the deed.
To the poor she gave gold and treasures rare,And saddled steeds she gave them as their share.
She closed the palace, tore the throne apart,And cast it down with anguish in her heart.
She blackened every door throughout the hall,And dust rose through the eyvan, court, and wall.
She put a blue robe on, but soon the hueWas lost beneath the blood that soaked it through.
A year she mourned, and constant was her grief,Until her broken heart found no relief.
She died of grief when that long year was done;Her grieving soul went forth to Sohrab, her son.
Then eloquent Bahram said: “Do not bindYour heart to those whom death has left behind.
Prepare to leave; you cannot linger here;Your father passed before you; your turn draws near.
As he gave up his place, so you must go;Your turn must end, though none its hour can know.
Death’s hidden secret no one can make plain;No key sought out in grief unlocks that chain.
No hand can force the closed door open wide;This grief consumes the life that still abides.
What passed was fixed by the Maker’s decree;What He ordained has come, as all can see.
So do not set your heart upon this earth;Our brief sojourn here yields but little worth.”
Now from this mournful history I turn;The tale of Siavash is my concern.
A tale of tears, that in the tender heartBreeds anger against Rostam for his part.
Family
- Parents
- Rostam
Where he appears
Named mentions by book, from the Universe Registry. Titles such as “the Shah” and epithets are not counted.