I desire to leave, to disppear, to slip quietly into the night
On the last bus out, to the last possible stop
Discreetly removing the trail as I go
And with it every memory I left behind
When the sun rises, so will they
And there'd be nothing left of me
No clothes, no books, no wall marks
No face, no voice, no tingle of a touch
I was there, now I am here
Burn everything old and get lost in the new

Freedom, you are the pride of Bengal
Freedom, you are the right of Bengali
Freedom, you are the light of life path
Freedom, you are built with the blood of Bengali!

Freedom, you are the smile of sad moms
Freedom, you are in the heart of Bengali
Freedom, you are the moon of the night
Freedom, you are the best success to Bengali!

Freedom, you are the reward to the ****** ocean
Freedom, you are the reverence to crores of Bengalis
Freedom, you are the reason for happiness to Bengalis
Freedom, you are the new life of Bengal!

Freedom, you are the dream of millions of martyrs
Freedom, you are the island of the endless ocean
Freedom, you are the long hair of the village girls
Freedom, you are so high like the blue sky!

Freedom, you stay in real action
Freedom, you stay in the spirit of Bengalis
Freedom, you stay with black and white
Freedom, you live in everyone's religion!

Freedom, you are my first priority
Freedom, you are my first torch
Freedom, you are my dignity
Freedom, freedom, I'll never do injustice to you!

for each seed growing in a strong tree,
half a million other seeds will bite the dust,
except, to taste the dust they must believe  in the power of usefulness,

- unable to think that they will never germinate
they let themselves be carried away by exotic dreams:
dreaming of being nibbled by sparrows, washed by rain,
smelled, chewed by squirrels, beaten by hot-cold winds,
swaying in foamy waves,
touched by a second chance,
than
rotten in the mud under a tree,  be it a strong tree, who cares,
in other words, about a vigorous tree when you are a survival  arch,
canopy
arched up to the white canvases.

orange and red streaks reflected on garden eyes
smoke in my lungs
and a tiny bit of cancer between two delicate fingers
as you grow, everything changes
for better or for worse
life is short baby girl
light a cig