A man with an iron fist in Ardabil

He passed the leather arm of an elephant

A felt-clad man came to confront him in battle

A youth, the world-burning maker of war

He sought conflict like Bahram Gur

With a rope on his shoulder, in the face of the untamed beast

When the Ardabili saw the felt-clad man

He drew his bow and aimed the string to his ear

He fired fifty arrows in his onslaught

But none pierced through the felt armor

The felt-clad warrior entered like Sam

He captured him with the noose of his rope

He took him to his camp and bound him in the tent

Like a bloody thief, he tied a rope around his neck

He did not sleep that night from shame and jealousy

In the morning, the guard said from the tent

You, who once sewed arrows and spears

How did you fall captive to a felt-clad man?

I heard him say, weeping with blood

Do you not know that none survives the day of death?

I am the one who, in the way of insult and strike

I teach Rustom the manners of battle

When the arm of my fortune was strong

The bulk of my elephant seemed to be felt

Now I am in the grip of destiny

The felt before my arrow is no less than an elephant

On the day of fate, the spear and armor ache

The shirt of life passes not beyond the inevitable death

Whom the sword of fate grasps in its clasp

He is naked, no matter how many layers of armor he wears

If fortune is a companion and time turns its back

One cannot be slaughtered by a scimitar when naked

The wise do not escape death by effort

Nor does the ignorant perish from conflict