The bright morning Tir
He faces north with strained bow
The old, the nude of Damavand
From the plateau
The arrow flew
The entire morning
At noon it fell
Arash,
Your voices live in the mountains
He faces north with strained bow
The old, the nude of Damavand
From the plateau
The arrow flew
The entire morning
At noon it fell
Arash,
Your voices live in the mountains