Poem by- Ataur Rahman Milad

We had learnt the speech with Mom’s voice

We had spread the hopeful seed with lisping art.

We are walking on a field beneath the bluest sky We are stepping with our mother’s voice.

We opened the story-shop with impressed howl Voice-festival with enlightened palms, all are here.

We sketch our own identity on voice-steps Sky and soil speaks of Bengal in unstopped style.

We move home and abroad, near and far Songs of Bengal echoes within our own heart-beats.

We see the faces so dear on Bengal-mirror Voice-mountain can enhance the joy of birth forever.

We opened the sky-envelop with alphabetic grace Purest names of language martyrs with blood-soaked breeze….  

-Translated by Laila Ferdous Itu