The Traveller enters Kabul and visits the late Martyr King

The city of Kabul, its clime resembling paradise; You get the Water of Life from the vein of its grapes,

the eye of poet acquires collyrium from its precincts.

Observe its jesamine beds in the darkness of night: you would say as if the dawn lolls on the carpet of its grass.

That city with the lovely climes in that hallowed land, its breeze is better far than that of Syria and Rum.

Its water so glittering and earth radiant, the dead earth springs into life with its pleasant draughts.

Its excellence cannot fall into the grasp of words’ expressions, suns upon suns lapped in sleep in its mountains;

its inhabitants complacent and genial, unware of their mettle like a sword.

The royal palace named Dilkusha (Heart Ease), the dust on its way is like alchemy for those who come to it.

I met the king in his lofty palace —a poor fakir in the presence of a monarch.

His courteous nature opened wide the partals of hearts, nothing in the way of ways and formalities of kings.

This humble one in the presence of that noble king was like an insignificant person in the court of ‘Umar the great caliph.

My heart melt with the warmth of his hand, I kissed his hand out of humility.

A king pleasant of speech and plainly clad, hard in striving, mild of nature and warm hearted.

Sincerity and frankness apparent from his looks. Both Faith and realm firm in his person.

Of earth earthly but purer than angels luminous; cognizant of both modesty and kingship.

In his sight the affairs of both East and West; his sagacity knowing their secrets alike.

A king knowing subtle matters well like a sage knowing the causes of rise and fall of nations.

He said, “with the fire that you have in mind, I hold you as dear as my own son.

Anyone who bears scent and hue of love is like Hashim and Mahmud in my eyes.”

I presented a copy of the glorious Quran to this noble Muslim as a gift.

I said this is the whole and sole substance of men and God; it contains the very essence of life in all its absoluteness.

Therein is the endpoint of all beginnings. By virtue of it, Hyder threw open the gate of Khyber.

The intensity of my words ran into his blood. and tears upon tears trickled from his eyes in serried train.

He said, “I, Nadir, was a helpless one, bewildered because of the sad plight of the Faith and homeland;

hills’ arid tracts were unaware of my perturbation, ignorant of my boundless sorrows.

I raised cries with the note of the nightingale mixing my tears with the stream aflow in spring.

I had no solace except that of the Quran; its powers opened all doors to me.”

The words of that king of high lineage caused again an upsurge in me.

The call of noon prayer arose awhile which rids a believer of all limits.

The climax of ardent love is nothing but intense feeling, so I performed the prayer in his lead.

The secret of that standing and prostrating cannot be told except to those who are close associates.