May none be so acquainted with the tyranny of fate,
Many are the griefs that I bear now in my heart.
They that formerly lay prostrate at my feet
Now on my head do they plant their footsteps.
They who had ever expectation from my kindness
Rain now upon me their bounties and obligations.
They who have recovered of the wounds of which I healed them,
Laughing are they now that I am in need of cure.
To what purport shall I ply them? Who cares for their merit?
Burn them in the fire, those black pens of mine.
And yet it is not I alone that regard my country's honour,
For many are the Pathans on the mountains and the plains.
Let them then all give up the Mogul's treasures,
Or I, too, in my turn, will offer my hand to his bribes.
He that eats the Mogul's pottage, a dog indeed is he;
How can I make mention of the names of such as these?
Are they Khataks? Are they Bangash? Are they Wurrakzais?
May their houses ne'er be free from their mournings for the dead.
Would that I had vengeance taken for my rage and my distress,
Or that I had abandoned all hope for my own honour.
With my enemies what fault have I to find,
When from beneath my feet my own people draw the props?
May an unnatural son never grow old in any one's house,
Who would vie against his father in his schemes.
The Poet has no eyes to his own faulty verses.
It is thus that with mistakes his writings must abound.
Surprised indeed am I at how it leads me on,
This strange art of mine they call devilry and magic.
When the time comes for the grave I will lay me down with weeping,
Such have been the griefs of this heart of thine, Khush-hal.