Freedom sits silently

একবার বিদায় দে মা, ঘুরে আসি 

Freedom sits silently, ogling, like a blood-clot in my motherland's throat,

Bearing a stark resemblance to Khudiram's scar,

Potraying the bleeding bullet holes printed fresh on the morning news papers from the Jallianwala Bagh.

It's 1919 and my Nation is turned to a cremation ground engulfing its infants.

Staring at the pothole progress today 

I wonder how that mother would have survived through the night,

How she would've looked at the nation on the autopsy table

With its mortal soul ripped to a thousand pieces

And finally dropping a forehead kiss on her dead son's body.

How her screams would have ricocheted off the deary walls of the dead and landed like grenades on the hearts of all the grieving mothers.

১০ মাশ ১০ দিন পরে 

How she would've searched for a scarred neck in every newborn she met.

/ভাগ্যে খোকা ছিল মায়ের কাছে/

Who took counts of all the Birpurush who watched their mother's death twice?

Once when their bone and flesh burned bright,

And then their motherland's assault hung tight.

/इंकलाब जिंदाबाद/

A chorus of men destined for the gallows,

As the Nation roared with pain

Securing salt safely under fresh cut wounds

From chopped thumbs to broken necks

Torture was served in a three-course meal.

Mothers wrapped the bodies of their mutilated sons in khadi sarees,

Lament draped in the agony of centuries.

Freedom, never looked more familiar to us,

Than figures of speech in a sentence of silence.

In a nation's history where freedom was both a dream and a wound

We weave bandages for all the bodies that were never destined to be found.

- Snigdha