Though tombstones fine of bluish slate
Should ornament, adorn, my grave,
But I were to have died a slave,
Come, spit on and defile them!
If my body were not bathed,
In my blood, and sanctified,
Do not ever desecrate
Precincts of the mosque with it.
And if I were not to be
Into numerous pieces hacked
By the forces of the foe,
Mother, dear, how could you
Over me lament and cry?
I shall soon this land, deprived
Both of honour and of pride,
Into Paradise transform,
Or the ranks of Pukhtoon youth
Decimate, their streets denude.
Notes
This is an extract from the longer poem Wasiat (The Will). It was printed daily on the title page of Pukhtoon, a newspaper that Ghani Khan wrote for.
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