By Azahar Raza

From the earth’s forgotten vulture, They return with a thirst for blood,  
Awakening in the skies of Bengal, New wings unfurling—silent and cruel.  
A toxic breath spreads like fog over the dry grass,  
In the river of crime, the dreams of generations float, Vanishing along the path of light.  

Their heavy shadows cut through the azure skies,  
Shrouding the future in a cloak of despair,  
Hearing the cries of the weak, they return with insatiable hunger,  
Counting the deaths of rights, blood, and the green leaves of life.  

On the boundless fields, their breath releases poison,  
In the broken corners of the fields, they seek the scent of weakness,  
The delusion in the eyes, the satiated vultures chew on Bengal’s soil,  
The fields tremble with the groans of the dying people.  

A world of hope, like a wanderer on a confused path,  
Stands silently beside humanity’s grave in the dark of night,  
Where will anyone flee? Today, who knows where to hide—  
The vultures perch unmoving above everyone’s head.  

Slowly, they tear apart our dreams each day,  
Pouring poison into every breath, creating more emptiness,  
In the womb of time, the green fields fade, the azure sun flies,  
Today, the sky of Bengal sways like a grave of crimes.  

The vultures return again and again, cloaking the green pastures and dreams,  
The mark of endless hunger; every particle of the land trembles under savage feet,  
The dreams sink into the depths of a void, buried beneath the struggle to survive,  
The voice of humanity remains muted, waiting in the silence of night.  

This sky of Bengal, the breast of mother earth—  
Will it ever awaken to their cries, signaling a curse?  
The dead vultures will return to their own dark abyss,  
Spreading the melody of love and integrity across the land of Bengal.