A storm of blood arose,

from the plain of the Tatars.

It roared like thunder—

Chengiz, the Khāqān of kings.

Marv became dust and blood,

Bukhārā became a vision and a wound.

Samarkand, like a drifting mote of dust,

was scattered upon the wind.

Blood poured upon the heavens,

like the waves of a briny sea.

The sparrow was swept away,

the mighty fell into the dust.

Our hearts were illumined with light,

from the faith of Muṣṭafā.

We took up the sword of Truth,

upon the path of Divine Majesty.

Faith blossomed within us,

like a flower at dawn’s first light.

We are the servants of the Truth,

in service to the heavenly decree.

The farr of Anūshīravān,

the light of Sāsān upon the crown.

Khosrow’s justice in the hearts,

the emblem of righteousness and crown.

We are of the line of the Khāqāns,

the children of the heavens.

By the command of the turning sky,

we arose eternal.

Like Farīdūn in victory,

like Jamshīd in majesty.

Like Kay Khosrow, radiant—

a crown from the eternal light.

Like Chinggis in splendor,

like Qaidu in security.

Our farr is from the heavens,

our crown from the decree of the divine