Persian Phoenix
An old man, his grandson, sat side by side,
And discussed ideas beside a fireside,
And he said: ‘Dear child, since you’ve now much grown,
And many times, you’ve asked, wondered what I’ve known,
And no longer a cub, since you’re now a man,
An old tale I shall tell, how our world began.’
The old man rose, meandered to a window beside his hearth where logs crackled, and looked upon starry skies whose winks shone in myriads like cosmic charms. The auburn sphere above which he beheld, hurled her hues on calm seas below. ‘The Hunter’s Moon,’ he murmured under his bewildered beard, as calm winds breezed his supple silver hair like whispers. Hands on windowsill, he leaned onward, and hence a sigh which meddled with hallowed hoots and wearied howls like symphonies, he commenced:
The world was new, as all was dim,
King Kiumarz was dead;
In Cosmic Seas, on mountainous brim,
Sank as Simorgh bred.
She spread her arms, her limbs, her wings,
Crimson gilded plumes,
She cawed, she hopped, she soared round springs,
Under where moon looms.
Her houndlike head, her lionlike claws,
Peacock shaped in build,
Simorgh was brave, and shrewd, and wise,
No bird was more skilled.
The Tree of Life, in Cosmic Seas,
Whence lives once had led,
Became her nest, where she would rest,
She flapped as seeds spread.
‘The Cosmic Seas?’ questioned his grandson. The old man looked back, beckoned him with his hand — and the child, curious, wild, rose and towards him ran. With one hand on his shoulder, he rose the other and aimed with his index; he said: ‘The Cosmic Seas, dear child.’ His grandson who now gazed in wonder, hence a ponder, asked: ‘Then what happened? Where’s she now? Is she still here?’ They soon headed back, once more reclined, grandfather, grandson, side by side, as he gave response:
Years had passed, Simorgh soared around
Those peaks which housed her highland lair,
When she anon heard human sound
That screeched her ears like echoed blare,
She hopped, she searched, she scanned all round:
‘Speck!’ — she locked her eyes.
The more she neared, her peace was smeared,
She saw a child in cries,
Beside her home where none would roam,
She saw in surprise,
Hence leaped, and plucked a meal endeared,
She saw in surmise
King’s squads below, hence sailed back home.
Near her nest, where chicks laid rest, each
Soon awoke to see,
Human cub, a meal prepared, who
Made no sound nor plea,
He looked, he smiled, with hair white, but
The child wrought them glee.
The bird named him: ‘Zāl’ — (Albino).
‘Grandad,’ his grandson scowled, ‘why didn’t she eat him?’ The old man’s eyes widened, and he chuckled as his wrinkles creased in smile. ‘Eat him?! Oh no, no, no, dear boy. Simorgh’s as kind as they come.’ The child, still dubious, looked round, hence back, hence asked: ‘Then, what happened to Zāl?’ His grandfather relaxed his smile, peeked across his shoulder, and soon appeased his grandson’s eagerness:
No more a child, Zāl evolved wild,
Simorgh had him raised:
Wise, learned, brave — a leader mild,
Worthy of being praised.
Across years as Zāl grew from child to man,
He learned all, and more, how his world began;
Light or Dark, Life or Death, Good or Evil
Are cosmic rivals whose brawls in cycles,
Lead supernal plans which worldwide will span
All around, leaving each man, for each man.
Then one noon as sun shone down,
Some shadow loomed a gilded crown.
She looked, sighed, beside Zāl, Simorgh leaped and cried:
‘You should go, you’ve now grown, your father has come,
O dear child, how beguiled, such man you’ve become.’
She plucked some plumes, passed, said: ‘Such bears magic,
Like shields and arrows — slows all tragic.’
Zāl said: ‘This is my home, where I’ve grown,’
Yet Simorgh, hardened her heart like stone,
Clenched Zāl — up she flew
Above mountains as wild winds blew
To where King Sām’s crown, shone from down,
Who saw as Zāl neared,
To Simorgh bowed, his ego drowned,
One who all men feared;
He saw his son’s herculean build,
Hair as white as wool,
He dashed his shield and sword and kneeled,
Shocked he was so cruel:
‘Forgive me, son. Forgive my sins,
I am your father, King of Kings,
Who abandoned you on this earth,
For your white hair, upon your birth.
Pardon me, come home.’
Zāl looked upon his feathered guide,
Eyes blurred in tears, hence donned a smile,
Then downwards both reared.
‘Did she ever see him again,’ bellowed his grandson with a curious voice, ‘did she, grandad?’ The old man dimmed his smile. ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘but not for some years.’ The hearth crackled with crimson hues as winds rushed within. ‘Then, when?’ The elder rose, wandered, and from beside some dim nook, gripped a wooden box. ‘When she saw him next was when Rostam, his son was born,’ he added, as he removed something from inside which he wrapped in linen cloth. ‘He had a son?’ The old man raised a brow as he ambled back, ‘Oh child, such a son who’d grow to become a most renowned and unrivalled warrior in all Persia.’ Once more:
Across Space as travelled Zāl
Lands and seas spread far and wide
Where love did to him soon crawl
He saw she who would be his bride;
Whose name was Rudāba.
Some moons, hence, when with child,
From much pain, Rudāba, riled
With such sense as irons inside,
Under such summer sun’s loom
She slumped back and bled from womb.
News soon reached Zāl on his bride,
Trembled, he laid, and hence cried,
Then remembered Simorgh’s plume;
When he burned, from air she exhumed,
‘Why weep, my child?’
Simorgh served him her remedies:
‘Gather herbs, hence seek High Magus.’
Then when she leaped in reveries,
The Magus rose his blade high.
When awoke with no memories
To see her son born:
‘Rostam’ — he was named.
‘Who was he,’ his grandson questioned, ‘I mean, what is a Magus?’ His grandfather smiled, ran his hand over his beard, and sipped from his cup. ‘The Magus is but one drop, child. The Magi were our ancestors, wisemen from Persia whose practices became known as magic. Renowned alchemists, astrologists, cosmologist, medicine men, philosophers, wise seers who meddled with Time and Space,’ his head leaned closer and whispered, ‘ones spun the Sun and Moon.’ The old man’s lips clasped, his eyes on hopping from his hearth to the moon, hence his grandson, and now back to his hand with something held within. The child disrupted, ‘so, what happened to him?’
When he was summoned by Zāl,
When he saved his bride and child,
He awaited in his hall,
Zāl strolled over much beguiled.
‘You have saved lives, more than one,
You have led menace begone,
Saved my bride, delivered my son,
Now, since I am beholden;
To lighten my soul’s burden
Here I give a gilded plume.’
The plume as payment he took,
To his king bowed, soon betook,
To hide his quill in his room,
Gilded plume with golden loom.
‘Are these stories real,’ his grandson interposed, ‘or simple dreams and lies to keep us entertained?’ The old man shone a sharp smile, ‘That depends on you, child. What’d you desire?’ The child lowered his head in silence, deep in ponder. ‘Don’t look so down, dear lad,’ he grabbed his hand, placed the cloth within, closed his fingers. ‘D’you know what this may be?’ The child, still silenced, looked, and slowly unfurled — a golden luminance soon spread. ‘Simorgh’s feather?! Is this… could this… I mean…’ his eyes widened in surprise. ‘Seems that the Magi saved his golden plume,’ his old grandfather remarked. ‘D’you mean to say… as in…’ but the child seemed at loss for words. ‘Now,’ exclaimed his old kin, ‘come with me.’ Soon, as both headed for the veranda, his grandfather handed him a struck matchstick, ‘Are you ready?’
The boy, stunned, cynical, certain,
Brushed his blaze with his golden plume,
Between him and cosmic curtain,
Shone a fiery ferocious bloom.
