Shirooye

When word reached Jahrom that King Khosrow Parviz had been stripped of his power and slain, the master minstrel Barbad was consumed by profound grief. With tears flowing like rivers and a heart steeped in blood, he hastened toward the royal halls of Ctesiphon. Upon entering the chamber where the fallen monarch lay, he beheld the once-ruby cheeks of Khosrow paled to the color of a withered fenugreek flower. Standing before the dead king, Barbad raised his voice in a heart-rending Pahlavi lamentation, weaving a song so mournful that even the guards standing watch broke into bitter weeping, their souls scorched by the fire of devotion.

Barbad sang of the vanished glory: Where now was the majestic stature, the ivory throne, the golden armlets, and the radiant Derafsh Kaviani? Where were the war-loving champions, the wise mobads, the banquets, the hunting expeditions, and the incomparable steed Shabdiz with its golden stirrups? He lamented the cruel turn of Fate, reminding all who heard that Khosrow had sought a son to be his pillar and strength, yet from that very son came his ultimate ruin. He foretold that with the fall of the great guardian of Sasanian lineage, the realm of Iran would crumble into a lair for leopards and wolves.

Then, swearing a holy oath by God Almighty, by the honored name of King Khosrow, and by the sacred festivals of Nowruz and Mehregan, Barbad vowed that his hands would never touch a string again, nor would he ever offer a hymn of praise to the king's treacherous enemies. With unflinching resolve, he drew a blade and severed his own four playing fingers, holding the bleeding digits tightly in his fist. Returning to his dwelling, he kindled a roaring pyre and cast all his precious lutes and musical instruments into the flames, ensuring that his melodious art died alongside his beloved sovereign.