This, My Land
Not gold, not silver, not pearl, neelam it is not.
Like the blood-red heart, as soft
and noble – is this earth of my land!
In exchange for an unending stream of life – fresh
and lively, unpurchasable by silver or gold –
it has achieved liberation!
It has come to life again after crossing a sea of blood
and become so close, so intimate, so inseparable from our existence.
The brave sons have given their lives,
the daughters their honour and blood.
Mothers have thrown away the pearls of their hearts.
With speechless tongue and tearless eyes
have they seen their children slain.
They have seen, too,
their daughters nuded in sport.
The bayoneted husband dying,
has seen before his weary eyes,
hands and feet bound,
his wife tortured and dishonoured.
In spite of all that and everything else
that the most wretched of the kafirs could imagine
Bangladesh has come to its own,
free from stint and guilt.
Holding in the fold of its crust millions of its loved ones
it waited during the long, cold, winter nights
to rise again in the fresh morning air.
In the glory of morning sunshine
it has now raised its head,
proclaiming: "The martyr's blood is never shed in vain!"
The bereaved mothers, sisters, widows
are today held in high esteem.
Out of the blue-black mud of sorrow
the glorious lotus has come forth
and bloomed in the morning air.
O my mother, my sister and little maid,
who have suffered the evil touch of the debauch,
the nation kisses you in respect.
Truly chaste are you.
Is there on earth a scale to weigh your worth?
Every trifle particle of dust, honoured by your touch,
shall glitter like the peacock's feather
under the sun rays of Bangladesh.
The world today is amazed by your glory.
No diamond, pearl, gold or silver
Is comparable in aught
To the dust of my Bangladesh!
Translation: Kamaluddin A. Khan
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