Āraš the Archer (Āraš-e Kamāngīr)
Poetry by Siavosh Kasrayi (Sīyāvoš-e Kasrāyī)
Translated by Nima Yakhchalian (Nīmā Yaxčālīyān)
Snow is descending.
Snow is descending on thorns and rugged cliffs.
Mountains are silent;
valleys, heavy-hearted;
and paths, awaiting a caravan resonating with the melody of bells.
Had it not been for the wisps of smoke curling from hut rooftops,
or for the lanterns’ flicker carrying a message to us,
or for the trace of footprints upon slippery paths,
what could we have done against the howling blizzard’s merciless, bone-chilling grip?
Out there,
a lit hut, atop a hill,
emerges from within the blizzard.
They opened the door to me,
their welcoming kindness glowing like a beacon.
Soon I noticed,
regardless of the snow’s fierce grip and biting chill outside,
beside the fire,
Amu Nowruz
was weaving a tale to his children:
I had said that life is stunning.
Spoken and unspoken,
illustrations abound —
the vast expanse of the blue sky;
the Sun’s golden rays;
gardens ablaze with beds of blossoms;
meadows stretching toward the horizon;
defiant blossoms piercing the snow;
fish gliding gracefully in crystalline water;
the intoxicating scent of petrichor rising from the earth;
wheat fields’ slumber in silver moonlight;
coming, going, running;
loving;
sitting in communion with those in sorrow;
revelling shoulder to shoulder in people’s jubilant festivities;
toiling and toiling;
reposing;
gazing upon the vast, parched landscapes of deserts;
savoring sips of fresh water from a pitcher;
leading flocks of sheep toward mountains at dawn;
singing with stray mountain nightingales;
bottle-feeding a trapped fawn;
seeking shelter in shaded valleys
during the sweltering heat of midday;
every now and then,
beneath clay roofs veiled in mist,
lending an ear to tales of woe
whispered by the symphony of raindrops;
beholding the still cradle of a rainbow
on the horizon;
or sitting by fire flames
on snowy nights
and giving heart to vivid dreams of leaping flames.
Yes,
yes,
life is replete with countless beauties.
It’s an agiary whose flames are to eternally blaze.
Should you keep its fire stoked up,
the lively dance of its flames illuminates all horizons;
or else, the flames will fade out
— the sin whose burden rests solely on our shoulders.
Amu Nowruz,
in a serene manner,
laid a log upon the dying fire,
with a warm smile adorning his face.
His eyes scanning the dim confines of the hut,
he whispered to himself:
The fire of life must always blaze,
its insatiable flames
destined to dance ceaselessly
upon the stage of firewood.
O human, you are akin to a forest.
O untamed forest,
generously stretching your verdant lap upon mountains,
may your boughs’ fingertips cradle nests in eternal grace.
May springs flow in the shade of your being.
May the golden Sun,
whispering winds,
and nurturing rains
bestow their blessings upon you.
May your soul be ever devoted to fire.
O human, you who are akin to a forest,
may your boughs eternally thrive and be evergreen.
Amu Nowruz continued:
Life’s fire needs a spark;
its flames yearn for firewood to blaze.
My dear children,
our tale is about Āraš
whose soul was devoted to fire.
Such a bitter, dark time it was!
Our fortune,
like our ill-wishers’ countenance,
was as somber as night’s cloak.
Foes held dominion over our souls.
The ravaged land was engulfed in delirium,
whispering tales of turmoil.
Life was as cold as stone.
It marked the era of ignominy,
of shame.
Honour was confined within the shackles of servitude;
love perished within the malaise of lifeless hearts.
Every season donned winter’s cloak;
the stage once adorned with blossoms
hosted darkness.
As deep darkness descended,
the blooms of thought
filled the air with the stench of oblivion.
Fear’s shadow loomed.
Death’s wings unfurled.
Neither a leaf rustled upon a bough,
nor any soul stirred.
The freemen’s military encampment was still as the grave;
the foe’s camp, bustling with liveliness.
The land’s frontier,
like the vast expanse of thought,
was unmarked.
The town’s fortifications,
akin to the broken bastions of hearts,
lay in ruins,
the foes crossing the border’s defences.
No grudge dwelt in a single breast.
No bloom of affection found even a single heart to nest.
No one would offer a helping hand to anyone.
No smile adorned any face.
No blossom of wish unfurled.
The garden of life was bereft of leaves.
The eyes’ sky was leaden,
with the rain of tears spilling down in torrents.
Zealous freemen languished in captivity;
vile, depraved beings were holding the reins of power.
In clandestine gatherings,
the foes convened.
They sought wisdom from advisors
and schemed with low cunning in their tainted hearts,
aiming to conquer us by our own hands.
Their shameless, artful ones
— may the light of happiness for ever elude their eyes —
ultimately, found the subterfuge they sought.
Panicked eyes
were darting around in their sockets,
and everyone,
in hushed tones,
was whispering the news into another’s ear:
Thus unfolds the final decree,
the final nail in our coffin
— the flight of an arrow
will mark the land’s frontier.
Should the arrow descend close by,
our homes shall be cramped,
our wishes, shrouded in the dark;
yet should it travel to distant realms,
to where? . . . how far? . . .
oh, where does such indomitable strength and
unwavering faith lie?
Everyone was recounting the news.
Restless eyes were darting nervous glances at every corner.
Amu Nowruz was wringing his hands.
A weary wolf was howling from afar.
Snow was piling up, layer upon layer.
And the wind was whispering,
misting the window up with its breath.
Calmly, the old man [Amu Nowruz] went on:
Morn was approaching.
Before the foes,
Iranian army was stationed
— not a plain, but a vast ocean of troops.
Stars,
the sky’s luminescent diamonds,
were lost.
Night’s darkness surrendered to the embrace of white dawn.
The wind,
was whirling like a bird
fluttering and scattering feathers
across the vast plains in the foothills of Alborz.
Iranian warriors were in agonizing angst,
exchanging hushed whispers to each other — some in pairs,
some in trios.
Children were perched on the rooftops;
girls, longingly staring out of the windows;
and sorrowful mothers, by the doors.
The symphony of whispers
rose to a crescendo.
The tempestuous ocean of people
unleashed a tidal surge of thunderous roar
and rose like a relentless wave,
splitting in half and revealing a man from within,
as if a shell revealed its nestled pearl.
“I am Āraš,”
before the foes,
the man thus set forth:
I am Āraš,
an unbound warrior,
poised to take up your bitter gauntlet,
with my sole arrow in the quiver.
Inquire not of the lineage from which I sprang,
for I was birthed within the fires of labor and hardship.
I am the meteor hurtling through the dark skies.
I am the very dawn,
poised to unfurl a brilliant tapestry of light.
Blessed be the armour donned for battle.
Blessed be the wine flowing in celebration of our victory.
May this wine and armour bring delight and blessings.
I clench my vengeful heart
— the chalice overflowing with bad blood and rancour
— in my iron fist.
May I toast to the victory in our festive gathering,
may I strike the chalice of your hearts in the battle,
as the heart brimming over with rancour is cold as stone.
In this revelry,
amid our battle,
stone and jar wage war.
In this battle,
on this odyssey,
people’s hearts beat with me;
the hope of the voiceless is my source of strength.
The galactic arc serves as my bow;
the bowman am I, the archer.
The fast-moving meteor is my arrow.
On the towering crest of mountains is my sanctuary.
Within the eyes of the early-rising Sun is my dwelling.
Fire serves as the fletching of my arrow.
The wind obeys my commands.
Yet today,
the key to our salvation
dwells in neither might nor valor;
freedom eludes the grasp of vigor and the strength of
youth.
In this battlefield,
upon this life-taking, home-building arrow,
there must be a feather made of soul,
destined to soar ceaselessly.
Then
Āraš looked at the heavens,
striking a different tone:
Greetings to you, O last morn.
Adieu, O dawn.
This is your last farewell to Āraš.
I swear on the very morn,
I swear on the benevolent, endlessly giving Sun
I shall offer my soul to the arrow;
then, with unwavering resolve,
I shall shoot it.
The Earth bears witness,
as do the heavens,
that my flesh is flawless
and my soul, unblemished.
No deceit dwells in my endeavors,
nor does any enchantment;
no trepidation lies within my thoughts,
nor does any dread spectre lie within my heart.
He paused for a moment,
his lips resting in a silent symphony of silence.
Hearts was thudding against the ribcage,
panting breaths surging restlessly.
Āraš continued:
From ahead,
Death draws near,
with its countenance shrouded in a formidable mask.
Taking each intimidating step,
it fixes its gaze upon me,
with eyes weeping crimson tears.
It circles overhead
like an ominous vulture.
It lingers on,
looms ahead,
and sneers coldly in my face,
its derisive laughter spilling out from its maw
and echoing through mounts and vales.
My heart detests Death,
for this evil demon consumes the very essence of flesh.
Yet when life is replete with angst,
and good and evil wage battle,
to embrace Death is a real blessing
— as therein lies the genuine freedom.
Thousands of eloquent eyes and silent lips
regard me as their harbinger of hope.
Thousands of quivering hands and restless hearts
hold me close whilst urging me forward.
I step forth,
with my soul adorned with human virtues.
By the grace of the strength dwelling in life’s eyes and
smile,
I shall strip away the Death’s daunting mask.
He knelt in prayer,
outstretching hands toward mountain peaks:
O sunlight, O beacon of hope, arise!
O the glorious Sun, shine forth!
The ever-flowing spring are you;
the thirsty, restless am I.
Arise!
Let your golden tide
quench my soul’s thirst.
As I am within the jaws of malicious Death,
as my heart is engaging in a fierce battle against a
malevolent evil,
I yearn to be bathed in your gilded embrace.
O golden bloom,
from your radiant petals,
unfurled to cast rays of light,
I would seek vitality and vigor.
O silent, towering mountain peaks,
whose brows caress roaring thunder,
whose eyes behold stunning vistas of the heavens at
night,
whose shoulders hold the pillars of gilded days up,
whose embrace offers a safe refuge for sunset clouds,
may you forever stand firm and proud.
Raise my hopes up!
as you raise the flag of dawn wind
atop your peaks.
Safeguard my pride!
as you safeguard the leopards in your rocky embrace.
The Earth lay in deafening silence;
the heavens, in absolute stillness,
as if the world was all ears,
listening to Āraš.
The Sun emerged from the jagged silhouette of the
mountains,
casting a cascade of golden rays into the eyes of the
heavens.
Āraš took a look at the land calmly.
Children were perched on the rooftops.
Girls were at the windows.
Sorrowful mothers were by the doors.
And men were on the road.
The eyes were singing a silent song steeped in sorrow,
their unvoiced grief accompanying the whispers of the
morning breeze.
What melody could express
the tone of those steadfast, heroic steps toward death?
What song could capture
the tone of those deliberate steps taken forth?
His foes,
in a silence thick with derision,
made way.
From atop the rooftops,
the children were chanting his name.
Mothers were murmuring fervent prayers for him.
The old men’s eyes were darting around.
And the girls,
clutching their necklaces in their fists,
sent love and support to him.
Āraš, still silent,
ascended the slope of Alborz,
torrents of tears streaming down every face.
Amu Nowruz,
lost in reverie,
closed his eyes for an instant,
with a radiant smile gracing his lips.
The children, with weary and unrelenting eyes,
stood in awe of Āraš’s heroism.
The roaring flames were dancing within the hearth.
The wind was howling.
Amu Nowruz continued:
At night,
the trackers searching the mountain summits in pursuit of
Āraš
came back,
finding no trace
save his bow and a quiver with no arrow.
Yes.
Yes.
Āraš devoted his soul to the arrow.
He accomplished what countless swords couldn’t have
done.
On the next day,
at the stroke of midday,
the horsemen riding along the river Jayhun
witnessed Āraš’s arrow,
lodged in the heart of a thick walnut bough.
From that instant onward,
the boundary between Irān and Turān was born.
The Sun,
serenely performed a celestial solo for years,
casting its golden glow upon the world.
The Moon,
in its silent, nocturnal wanderings,
rose and set with selfless devotion,
bestowing a silvery light upon the world.
As years rolled by,
the Sun and the Moon
partook in their unending ballet.
For years thereafter,
amidst the vast expanse of the Alborz,
where peaks thick with sorrow and silence dwell,
within the snow-clad valleys you behold,
the passersby left stranded on the roads at night
invoke Āraš’s name in the mountains,
calling upon him to help them.
Through the mountain rocks,
Āraš answers,
guiding them through the winding mountain paths,
igniting the spark of hope within their hearts,
and illuminating their way ahead.
It is snowing outside the hut.
Snowflakes are descending on thorns and rugged cliffs.
The mountains are silent;
valleys, heavy-hearted;
and paths, awaiting a caravan resonating with the melody of bells.
The children have been asleep for so long.
Amu Nowruz is asleep, too.
I lay a piece of firewood into the hearth;
the flames cheerfully blaze . . .
-
Author:
NimaYakhchalian (
Offline) - Published: February 13th, 2026 09:31
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 2
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Comments1
🤔I must be getting old; this story is too complex for me to comprehend.
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