. . . Where the Darlings Lie Buried

The shivering cold nights of wintry Paush

have passed.

And now the dew drops of a morning

like tears,

shed by mothers, sisters, wives,

as they gaze self-forgetfully

at the mounds

where their darlings lie buried.

For the last-nine months

the soil of this land

was drenched with bubbling blood.

And now the fecund earth

lies under the warm and golden sun

and brings forth her dower

of flowers of the season.

There is a smell

of ripening harvest in the air.

Drowsy with this atmosphere

or through sheer weariness,

our darlings have dropped off

into sleep.

No, I shall not disturb them

in their slumber

I shall leave for them, instead,

a kiss on the green mounds.

As I touch the grass tenderly

I seem to feel the clasp

of thousands of eager hands,

and thousands of merry voices

speak to me:

'Don't you feel proud of us, mother,

that we have liberated our Bangladesh?'

Ah, my daredevil darlings

that you have done indeed.

In the comity of nations

you have indeed laid out

a bright carpet,

dyed with your ruby-red blood,

for your mother Bangla.

And now, through the ages

Mahakal—the great god of time,

will stand at attention

to pay you homage

for the marvel you have done,

our deathless darlings.

Begum Sufia Kamal  (National Poet of Bangladesh)  

[translated from the original Bengali by