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O' ye mortal men
who pride yourselves,
on power,
briefly begotten,
with the weapons
of war.
When you have stopped shouting;
in the silence of the night,
listen to the whispers
of the breeze; passing through us,
and you might hear
the tales of yore.
Of the deeds
of mightier men,
who had given us form,
more beautiful than yours,
with a smile
that'd taunted you?
A millennium ago,
your ancestors had used spears
to cut off a finger here,
or a nose tip there,
and half a millennium back
they'd used cannon balls.
Now, you used shells and dynamite;
that made greater noise and raised more dust.
But the breeze, our friend had brushed these off!
A head might go, and limbs might fall
but, O! fools,
our spirit lives on in the hearts of men!
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You were all afraid,
that seeing a smile so sublime,
your people might ask,
"But what did he say?"
Yes, that is what you were afraid of.
But O! fools, know ye not:
that this will raise more questions?
Yes, that is what you were afraid of;
and will still fear,
the questions!
They will come,
yes, more will come;
even from your own kith and kin.
And then you will be more afraid;
of those of your own kin,
armed by you,
but unhappy with your answers;
and seeing your fear,
who might turn their guns on you!
Then the breeze will laugh with us,
for we'll go on for a hundred centuries
at Bamiyan,
whence even your graves,
would've been wiped off
the surface of this Earth.
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