Where My Darlings Lie Buried

The shivering cold nights of wintry Paush have passed.
And now dewdrops of a morning
are like tears, shed by mothers, sisters, widows,
as they gaze forlorn at the mounds
where their darlings lie buried.
For the last nine months
the soil of this land was drenched with bubbling blood.
And now the fecund earth
lies under the warm and golden sun,
and brings forth her dower of flowers of the season.
There is a smell of ripening harvest in the air.
Drowsy with this atmosphere,
or through sheer weariness,
our darlings have dropped off to sleep.
No, I shall not disturb them in their slumber.
I shall leave for them, instead,
a kiss on the green mounds.
As I touch the grass tenderly
I seem to feel the clasp of millions of eager hands,
and millions of merry voices speak to me:
“Don't you feel proud of us, Mother,
that we have liberated our Bangladesh?”
 Ah, my daredevil darlings that you have indeed done!
In the comity of nations
you have indeed laid out for your Mother Bangla
a bright carpet,
dyed with your ruby-red blood.
Now, and through the ages
Mahakal – the great God of time –
will stand at attention to pay you homage
for the marvel you have done.
Ah, our dear ones, you are deathless!

(Written on December 27, 1971 following the liberation of Bangladesh on December 16. Reprinted with permission from family.)