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English translation

If the Throne of God is fitting for a court, It is fitting for King Bahramshah. The King, supported by the truth of miracles, Not by way of exaggeration or metaphorical paths. Though the heaven is not rotating in vain, He is the axis, though the field is not narrow. For this reason, the year and month are established, Not from weak judgment or a diseased nature. Day and night, with prayer and fasting, Are the guardians of the turquoise dome. So that through the justice and dignity of the king, The belt of the mountain becomes like the cap of the king. Death itself seeks demise from his justice, Wisdom seeks sustenance from his knowledge. Whoever writes the number of his name, Finds eight Bahramshah and eight heavens. For sharing the name of the well-reputed king, Mars is red-faced with pride in the sky. Having girded his loin for the sake of Sharia and the kingdom, More so with the knowledge of Ali and the justice of Umar. For the sake of friends, in times of battle, How the back of his enemy becomes bent like the letter Dal. His resolve is victory for the sword of the kingdom, His prudence is a shield against the arrow of death. Under his command, for the sake of soul and world, Are hundreds of thousands of hearts, yet a single decree. The Jaxartes river is slow-footed from his dread, The heaven has a soft neck submissive to his decree. If he wishes, with a single blow of his fist, He can make the enemy's belly a drum and smash his backbone. Providing sustenance from his two hands like a cloud, Bringing burning death from his tongue like a sword. The soul is refreshed by his sight, The dead is brought to life by his speech. His character is the character of the prophets; How wonderful are his character and inner nature! He is the Mahdi of the time and the Jesus of the present, Day and night in battle with the Antichrist. For his arm, from the line of sanctification, Victory and conquest have become his prophetic amulet. His character is the soul of the form of China, His majesty is the pillar of the tent of religion. What can I say? For indeed in his decrees, Fortune brought him a message from the heavens, That a king like you for the throne, Destiny and the decree of the Almighty have rarely seated. The Throne and the Footstool are small compared to his stature, The day's daily bread is less than his fame. The sky bears his mace with a bent back, The sky rubs his banner on its eyes in reverence. When the sphere of heaven sees his dominant arm, Its Lion packs its baggage upon the Bull. When the king prevails in hunting lions, The celestial lion becomes sated with lionhood. The stars that change the states of things, Deem his sword to be the herb of death. His sword is resurrection to the enemy, The lion fled upon seeing his sword. The shadow of the king's sword over Jaipal Is constantly the most momentous of terrors. That sword is the plague of the enemy's soul; Truly you would say it is the cloud of death. You would say the people of existence and the people of non-existence Are both gathered together in the king's sword. The number of those slain by the king's sword— A tiny particle of his sword with the peak of the king's glory. A tiny speck of the king's majestic sword Slew a multitude of creatures in creation. Sometimes it laughs in the hand of the king, Sometimes it weeps blood upon his enemies. From the heat of the king's arrow, The king of birds sheds its primary feathers. And if the head of his mace treads upon the earth, It tears the armor of the fish of the abyss. If the king shakes his spear, He troubles death itself, which was otherwise at peace. Whoever is an enemy of the king, Becomes an ant, even if he were a serpent. He can easily turn the heavens layer by layer With his spearhead, if he so desires. When the sword of his namesake wages war, It learns the art of vengeance from his sword. When his dagger becomes 'Qaf' and 'Kaf', Mount Qaf becomes a navel of musk from its scent. From the cloud of the king's raining sword, The meadow of the kingdom is adorned. If he wishes, with his Moses-like sword, He can make a dry path out of the ocean. The hand of the religion-protecting king can pull The toenail of the enemy through the vein of his head. The reflection of his chest-tearing sword strips The shagreen leather garment of the rhinoceros from its head. His dagger illumines the face of the day and the kingdom, His arrow destroys judgment and pierces the Turkish ruler. Whoever wages war against his spearhead, Has his entire body turned into mouths, like a flute. Since the neck of the heaven saw his mace on the plain, It is a broken collarbone. The blow of his mace displayed in a single instant The slain and the buried, both together. If they describe the qualities of his mace, The mountain's breath is choked by the echo. Since his steed is only for the sake of Truth, It is grey and black, not piebald. On the day of battle, when he resolves in his heart, He severs the head of Qavurd like limbs. The dread of his mace and arrows in war, When he marches towards the enemies. His hand and sword are the arbiters of destiny and decree, His arrow and spear are like the sun and the moon. When the gallop of his grey steed began, The Arab drew close to the Persian. For the west wind is but a single gallop of his, And the smoke of fire is from the envy of one of his veins. His litter atop the stubborn elephant Is like Mount Judi upon Noah's Ark. When a message came from him to his enemy, The enemy's breath was held and his soul departed. The soul that passes before his sword Beholds itself like a dark-faced Ethiopian looking in a mirror. When the king's resolve was aroused, From his night arose the day of resurrection. He who with Indian-born swords Conquered India, matching his own temperament. When the time comes for Rome and China, He will open them as he opens his own heart and hand. Lahore, out of excessive grief, Was truly the mourning house of Adam. He does not target any weak foe, For no one spills the blood of a corpse. His enemy, out of fear of him in battle, Begs for quarter like an image painted on a shield. This is his remedy in times of earthquake, That his tongue becomes dumb with awe. Whoever does not drink wine to his memory, Let his throat be slit by a dagger. If he puts his hand to the bow, The celestial sphere is bewildered by fear of his bow. If his enemy breathes a word about his arrows, The bowstring shows him the way to his collar. Oppression is like the rotation of the heavens, breath by breath; Affairs are like the tresses of the beloved, curl upon curl. Their men, in the face of death, are sketchers of forms, Their horses are pen-eared and colorful. For the sake of color, melody, and garments of leaves, They are all paintings in the picture gallery of death. Life has fled from the hearts of the Indians, Leaving the Turks counted among the lowest depths. The ugly trait of the wolf is in their flock, The Truth is a revealer of secrets over them all. What was once a mercy to the water and clay of everyone, Has now become a torment to the soul and heart of everyone. Over their heads, from his sword of passionate banner, Their souls depart, kissing like a pen. Though they were stone-bodied like mountains, Before him they wore iron shrouds. Suddenly, through the glory of the crown and cap, King Bahramshah established a place of ease. He poured water upon the fire of sedition, For he is the sea-swallowing devourer of serpents. In their hearts, from the fear and majesty of the king, The mountain range became their waist. The child of the enemy, in effect, Had his birth and death together like a spark. His sword renders the enemy barren, And makes the enemy's child an orphan. When the king marched toward them, He dispersed their hundred-year gathering. When he became the peer of the king's justice, The air became pleasant like Gabriel's Lote-tree. When justice becomes the ruler of the world, The deer becomes sated on the milk of the lion. The garden of Iram is seven hells without his command, The Sanctuary is seven climes of safety because of his security. The child of his enemy, out of fear of the devil, Accepts the soul into his body only as a bribe. Even if the enemy before his mace is an angel, He is like the tail of the celestial Scorpio. On the day of vengeance and battle, his enemies Behave like a menstruating woman, though they are men. Even if they are all Jupiter and Saturn, They are all bewildered like paintings on a palace wall. The successful resolve of the king was like the heavens, The enemy of the king was trodden underfoot like the desert. If the enemy turned his back, say nothing, For a back on the ground is better than facing the heavens. The king's prudence deprived the brain of sleep, The king's resolve took away the luster of water. Since the fire of the kingdom saw the Jaxartes river, That water is no longer water now. The tip of his spear remains until Judgment Day As a barrier between the enemy and hell. He has chopped down the judgments of rulers with his sword, And made the spear of the lion into a banner's lion. Do you have news, or are you aware, Of that royal battlefield and battle-array? His description in that battle line Makes women perform better on the Amu Darya than men. Wherever our king turns his reins, The lions on his banners come fully alive. Whatever decreases from the life of his enemy, Is entirely added to the life of the king. Since the foundation of Ghazna's soil was laid, It does not remember such a king.