'Cause a poem will be written, with eager excitement
Lacks and lacks of excited anxious eager rebelious audiences are waiting
Till dawn on the beach of the park that turned into an ocean of crowd-
'When is the poet arriving?' 'When is the poet arriving?'

This childrens' park was not there then,
This tree, flower adorned park was not there then,
This sleepy colourless afternoon was not there then |
Then how was the afternoon then?
Then how was, the childrens' park, bench-tree flower garden
Covered, this field, the heart of Dhaka?
I know, black hand was raised to erase the memory of that day |
So I see today in this poetless desolate plain
Poet against poet,
Field against field,
Afternoon against afternoon,
Park against park,
March against march .... |

O! unborn children, O! poet of future,
While swinging on the colourful cradle of childrens' park
You will know one day everything - I'm, for you
Leaving the story of that great afternoon |
Neither the park, nor the flower garden - nothing was there,
Only as the sky still today touching the horizon
Was there wide grass-filled field, green and greenish
The green of our freedom-filled heart mingled with
The green of this wide field |

Red-band around their head and wrist, they came rushing to this field,
The iron labouror from factories,
Plough and yoke on their shoulders, The naked farmers came in swarms,
The fiery youths came snatching the arms of police,
Death in their fist, dream in their eyes, the middle-class came,
Lower middle-class, sad clerks, women, aged, prostitute, vagabond, and
The children, as you are, the leaf collecting children, in groups |

A poem will be recited, is that the reason for anxious waiting by mass |
'When is the poet arriving?' 'When is the poet arriving?'

After hundred struggles of hundred years, in a Rabindranath-like proud step
The poet at last stood on the people's platform |
Then in a twinkling, in a flush water flooded the boat,
Swing in the heart,
Tide in the crowd ocean, all doors are open -
Who will stop his fiery speech?
Trembling the platform of mass-fire, the poet recited the immortal poem:
'The struggle this time is for freedom,
The struggle this time is for independence |'

From then on the word 'independence' is ours |