Classic Poem

If thou consider poetry in its nature is no harm,
The only fault in it is that some make foolish verses.
He who makes verses without rhythm and without measure.
No poet is he, his are howlings of the dogs.
Persian poetry have I learnt, I have the taste for all;
Pushtoo poetry I prefer, each one thinks his own the best.
In measure, in meaning, in nicety, in metaphor,
Have I the Pushtoo language made to rival with the Persian.
The Pushtoo tongue is difficult, its measures hard to find;
Few are they that have come to me, though great has been my labour.
There is no one that has taught me the art of Pushtoo poetry,
The Mirza who wrote verses, it is long since he was dead;
The book of Akhund Darweza I have read from end to end.
In this there is no measure, nor are verses to be found;
The wise know well their value, what should the fool know of them?
Pearls of speech are they which I, Khush-hal, have strung together;
Liars are all who say that such as I have written in Pushtoo,
There are any other such verses, or ever have been before.
I am not always pleased at my own verses, yet what can I do?
My heart drives me against my will, at times I am impelled to it.
For twenty years past the cauldron of my poetry has been seething,
Not till now is it fit for use, that my life has past sixty years.
If my rival on my verses place his finger in criticism,
Whatever faults he finds I forgive him for them all.
In poetry any purport if there be, it is this,
That under cover of it, the poet may tell of noble actions,
Plain may be the overcoat that hides the brightest dresses,
Like gold-washers have I brought gold from simple earth.
Two stanzas and two measures have these verses if you see,
In the month of Safar, one thousand and eighty-one it was I wrote them.