Two thousand miles of a silent divide,
With a wall of injustice that they tried to hide.
The voices of Bengal were rising like thunder,
Against the chains that would pull us under.
They came in the night when the city was still,
With a heart made of iron and a hunger to kill.
"Searchlight" they called it, a shadow of dread,
As the streets of Dhaka were painted in red.
They wanted the land but they hated the tongue,
The songs of the poets that our mothers had sung.
But the spirit of Bengal is a river of fire,
That rises much higher than any empire.
From the green of the village to the urban heat,
The Mukti Bahini refused a defeat.
With a lungi, a rifle, and a dream in their eye,
They fought for the right to hold their heads high.
Nine months of sorrow, of blood and of tears,
To shatter the silence of twenty-four years.
The green and the red finally flew in the light,
As the darkness of winter gave way to the right.
The soil of the delta is sacred and deep,
Where the ghosts of the martyrs eternally sleep.
A nation was born from the sacrifice grand,
The eternal glory of Sonar Bangla land.