When Alp Arslan gave his life to the life-giver

His son placed the king's crown upon his head

They laid him in the tomb from the throne

It was no place for sitting, but a target for arrows

A wise madman said

When he saw his son riding the next day

Oh, the kingdom and the era, descending

The father went, and the son is in the stirrup

Such is the turning of time

Swift, treacherous, and unstable

When an ancient era ends its term

A young fortune rises from the cradle

Do not place your heart in the world, for it is alien

Like a minstrel who is in a different house each day

It is not suitable to rejoice with a beloved

Who has a new husband every morning

Do good this year as the village is yours

For next year another will be the village head