The sun ascends with a fierce, golden ray,
To herald the birth of a Boishakhi day.
The old year departs like a leaf in the wind,
As a brand-new journey is about to begin.
From the temple of dawn, the Esraj plays,
Through the morning mist and the humid haze.
The streets are a river of white and of red,
With garlands of flowers on every head.
The Mangal Shobhajatra moves with a grace,
With masks of the tiger and a smiling face.
Gigantic birds and the sun-god's wheel,
Expressing the joy that the people feel.
The scent of Panta-Ilish fills the air,
As music and laughter are heard everywhere.
From the village green to the city's heart,
Every soul plays a beautiful part.
The Halkhata opens with a prayer and a vow,
To forget the "Then" and embrace the "Now."
Sweetmeats are shared with a neighborly hand,
Across the breadth of our fertile land.
The Kalbaisakhi storm might darken the sky,
But the spirit of Bengal will never die.
A rhythm of drums and a flute's soft call,
Bringing a blessing to one and to all.