Muntakhab al-tawarikh 37.2.2

37.2.2

Long whiskers twisted over his ears His whiskers taking the place of the ring in the slave’s ear, Lightly he leapt out from the line of warriors, [You would think that waves of blood would burst from him, His skirt tucked up in his wrathful haste, his sleeves drawn back for bloodshed.] He demanded a well tempered sword from his officer, Drew it, and tightened up the skirt of his tunic, [The head of that cypress-like noble fell from his shoulders, He who was renowned for his youth and beauty.] Martyrdom was evident in Khizr in that palace, Just as the tree praises God when its branches put forth leaves. The heaven kept lamenting over his punishment, The angels continually assisted him in his martyrdom, Rizwan threw open the gates of Paradise, All the Huris began to sing his praises. From that martyr’s shout of triumph which came forth from the Shah, The sun and moon joined in the martyr’s song. When the dagger was raised aloft and the Shah’s face was seen amid his clustering locks, Lamentation arose in that assembly like the roll of thunder, The sun made his body a shield to protect him, But Fate turned it on one side from before him. When the sword of Fate severs the cord of Hope, Neither sun nor moon can become a shield for thee, With one blow which that ruthless one struck He made the Shah’s head a guest in his bosom. To wash away the blood, the revolving water-wheel of the sky Required that the spring of the sun should yield all its blood;