The Fitful Dream of Yazdegerd

Ponder, Persia, thine enemy’s rot
On the battlefields of Vartanantz,
And be not salacious with thy spoil
As she weeps defeat in thy tent.

Yazdegerd! Though thou the victor be
And Armenia burn with pyres,
Ahura Mazda judges thee
If thou visit thy harm upon her.

Fear the drone of Ahriman’s demons
Who chant a dirge with this woman’s wail
Perhaps for thee in Drûgâskan,
The deepest pit of hell.

Wife awaits at Taysafun’s gates.
Arise! Away! Release thy chattel!
Else there be strewn in the stain of thy mud
The soul of her fathers in the soul of thy son!