Rising high from the green of the Savar plain,
Built on the glory and the tears of the slain.
Seven pairs of walls that reach for the sun,
Telling the tale of how our freedom was won.
Each triangle stands for a chapter of old,
Of the language, the movements, and the stories untold.
From 'fifty-two to the December light,
A steady ascent from the darkness of night.
The concrete peaks pierce the blue of the sky,
Where the echoes of "Joy Bangla" will never die.
A silent tribute to the millions who fell,
In the fields and the streets that we know so well.
The reflection is caught in the pool's steady face,
Mirroring the dignity and the hero's grace.
The smell of the roses and the breeze through the trees,
Carry the prayers on the soft evening breeze.
No names are needed on the bricks or the stone,
For their spirit is something the nation has known.
A geometry of courage, a sharp, soaring height,
The lighthouse of liberty, burning so bright.
At the base of the pillars, the flowers are spread,
A carpet of red for the immortal dead.
It stands as a vow that we'll never forget,
The sun of our freedom that never shall set.