Muntakhab al-tawarikh 37.2.1

37.2.1

When he gave the signal and brandished his sword on all sides Not one leapt like lightning from that mass of clouds. May God have mercy! How could anyone draw the sword of revenge upon that crowd of moonlike faces. Whose heart would not be torn with distracting grief In pity for so many young and beautiful men? Oh Lord! may the breast of heaven be rent a hundredfold To think that it has brought so many noble ones to the dust. How can you look for pity for the blood he sheds, in the heart of the butcher? Whose one desire is to see his knife stained with blood. When the bloody butcher binds roses upon his head, Why should he withhold his knife from the rose-like body? Since no one of them desired that the sword should succeed in shedding their blood, There leapt from their midst like a whirlwind A man of low origin, a Hindu by birth Husky of hue, like to Ahriman, Nay! a thousand Ahrimans would stand aghast at his face; Grief-increasing like the pleasure of those in distress, Wrong in judgment like the intellect of young people; Unlucky to look upon as a young owl. Like a morning in Dai at Ghaznin cold and inhospitable; Like the night of sorrow his forehead full of gloom, Like the nature of a wicked man, accursed. A lip like the sole of a ploughman’s foot, A cheek like the mouth of a man with paralysis; That hideous one had a mouth like a helmet. His smile like the yawning of a burst shoe;