Standing tall against the Dhaka sky,
Where the spirit of the martyrs will never die.
A symphony of marble, a curve of the soul,
Keeping the heart of the nation whole.
The central pillar, like a mother's grace,
Bending to protect her children's space.
With the crimson sun at its silent back,
Lighting the way on the freedom track.
Four smaller columns stand firm by her side,
In a circle of honor, in a circle of pride.
A frozen prayer in the morning air,
The scent of the garlands is everywhere.
Beneath the platform, the barefoot rows,
As the "Amar Bhaier" anthem flows.
From the heat of the struggle in 'fifty-two,
To the sovereign sky of the red and blue.
The blood of the student, the tear of the street,
In this sacred garden, they finally meet.
It isn't just stone or a pillar of gray,
But the voice that we speak in every day.
Across the borders and over the sea,
It stands for the right to be wild and free.
A lighthouse of language, a beacon of light,
The hero's answer to the silence of night.