The Advice of an old Baluch to his son

Winds of these wasteland be your love! Bokhara, Delhi, are worth no more.

Like running water Go where you will: these desert plains are ours, and Ours are these valleys.

Honour, that high thing in a world of troubling (struggle), Sets on the Saint’s head Darius’ crown

Learn from some master, this strange craft They tell that how glass is forged flint-hard

Fortunes of States through individual prowess ripen Each man one star of their ascendant (Destiny)

Ocean withholds her treasure when the diver Groping for pearl shells Clings by land’s margin.

To the Muslim freedom gained at the price of casting off religion Makes an ill bargain!

In our world, where once more Civilization Looses its wild beasts, in one more encounter Spirit and flesh meet;

On the true-believer’s Manhood God’s trust lies - The machines of Europe Satan’s alliance.

Who knows the nation’s fates? But signs abound, If Muslims are wakeful

From your buried fathers ask pride of action; Do not fear—a king may smile on a beggar.