Classic Poem

Still am I grateful for this to Heaven,
That my view is o'er the Indus from Meer Kalan.
From door to door I wandered in Tirah and in Swat,
Now whither dost thou press me on my evil fate?
As the ball flies before the mallet's bidding,
All my body is wounded by the blows that drive me on.
Written was this in my fate from all eternity;
Whom then can I blame for what they do?
Of old is the ignorance and obstinacy of the Pathans,
Still stronger is this now shown in their lust of gold.
It cannot be that Sher Shah was such as we.
Who in these days are born amidst our rocks and mountains.
Shameless are the deeds of the Pathans; yet who cares for it?
To our graves must we now go grieving and dishonoured.
Sad to me are the disagreements of the Khataks,
Yet sadder still the troubles which I bear in my own home.
Whom shall I tell of them? To whom write them? Not so few are they,
That I could ever find their end in my narration.
These wounds which Khush-hal Khan bears in his heart,
Thou alone canst heal their scars, Almighty God!