Caravans of silk, beautiful lads, and sharp swords,
Are what a brave Afghan with pride hoards
When the swords of Afghans glitter,
The caravan and its merchandise shiver.
The camels moan and the riders groan,
As they near Khybar with their spirits blown.
Caravans and merchants whine and weep,
When onto the Pass mighty Pashtons leap.
If a Pashton extracts no tolls from a trader,
His tribe considers him a sellout traitor.
The Arab boys and the Frang women,
Crave the strength of Pashton men.
From Hindustan to the distant west,
Afghans have put all to this test.
O son one word I have for thee,
Fear no one and no one you flee.
Pull out your sword and slay any one,
That says Pashton and Afghan are not one.
Arabs know this and so do Romans,
Afghans are Pashtons, Pashtons are Afghans.
By Khoshaal Khan Khatek