In the end, when it's over, all that matters is what you've done.
I send you a kaffis of mustard seed, that you may taste and acknowledge the bitterness of my victory.
Are there no more worlds that I might conquer?
God must have loved Afghans because he made them so beautiful.
Toil and risk are the price of glory, but it is a lovely thing to live with courage and die leaving an everlasting fame.
Do you not think it a matter worthy of lamentation that when there is such a vast multitude of them [worlds], we have not yet conquered one?