Poem by- Ataur Rahman Milad
Voice of my mother
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