Where sixty rivers weave a silver thread,
Across the land where ancient heroes bled.
A tapestry of green and golden soil,
The fruit of patience and of honest toil.
The Sundarbans, where royal shadows creep,
And secrets of the tides are buried deep.
The hills of Chattogram kiss the morning sky,
While tea-leaf valleys watch the clouds go by.
In Seventy-One, a roar of freedom rose,
To end the winter of our darkest woes.
The language of our soul, our mother tongue,
Is the sweetest song that has ever been sung.
From Cox's Bazar where the waves embrace the sand,
To Sylhet's rain that feeds the thirsty land.
The monsoon clouds bring life to every field,
As nature's wonders are at last revealed.
A land of poets, of the boatman's song,
Where resilient hearts have always been so strong.
My Bangladesh, the jewel of the East,
From the greatest mountain to the smallest feast.