From the words of the farmer, a tale

I shall weave from ancient sayings

The priest recounted in this way

That one day Rostam, from early morn

Saddened at heart, he prepared for hunting

He girded his belt and filled his quiver with arrows

Toward the border of Turan he set his course

Like a wary lion, seeking prey

As he neared the border of Turan

He saw the plain filled entirely with onagers

His royal face bloomed like a rose

He laughed and mounted Rakhsh with vigor

With arrow, bow, mace, and lasso

He hunted many prey on the plain

From twigs, thorns, and tree branches

He kindled a strong fire

When the fire blazed brightly, the elephant-bodied hero

Found a tree from which to fashion a spit

He struck a wild onager onto the tree

That no bird’s feather could escape his grasp

Once roasted, he tore it apart and ate it

He cracked its bones to extract the marrow

He slept and rested from the trials of life

While Rakhsh grazed and roamed in the meadow

Seven or eight Turkish horsemen

Passed by the hunting plain

They spotted a horse in the meadow

And circled the stream’s edge

When they found Rakhsh on the plain

They hurried to capture and bind him

They seized him and quickly took him to the city

Each sought to claim a share of Rakhsh

When Rostam awoke from his pleasant sleep

He needed his trusty steed for his task

He looked into the meadow

But saw no sign of his steed anywhere

He became sorrowful when he couldn’t find his horse

Hurriedly, he set out toward Samanjan

He said, 'Now, I must run on foot'

'Where shall I go, disgraced and shamed?'

What will the warriors say, that his horse was taken?

The great hero slept and died thus

Now I must go in helplessness

Entrusting my heart entirely to sorrow

Now I must gird my arms and belt

To perhaps find a trace of him

Thus, he went, full of sorrow and pain

His body in hardship and his heart in torment