The morning woke with a crimson glow,
A silent river began to flow.
Not of water, but of courage and pride,
As the sons of the soil stood side by side.
The streets of Dhaka, the winter air,
A scent of revolution was everywhere.
They didn't ask for gold or for land,
But for the mother tongue to firmly stand.
"Mother," they whispered in a breath so sweet,
As the iron bullets hit the dusty street.
Salam, Barkat, Rafiq, and Jabbar,
Became the light of a morning star.
Their blood turned the black ink into red,
"Our language lives!" was the word they spread.
From the Shaheed Minar to the village lane,
We found our glory in the midst of pain.
The "Borno-mala" we speak today,
Was won in a fierce and a fiery way.
A gift of the martyrs, a sacrifice grand,
The rhythmic heartbeat of our motherland.
Now the world sings along in every tongue,
Of the hero's anthem that was bravely sung.
But the sweetest sound that the heavens seek,
Is the beautiful Bangla that we proudly speak.