Arid breezes swallow melodies whole,
song-flowers wither beneath poisoned skies.
A mirage shimmers, a wave in the sand,
a cruel trick on these parched, yearning eyes.
No current flows, no ocean\'s vast embrace,
only whispers of sand, the past\'s desolate sighs.
Midnight unfurls its black tent, a smothering hold,
gentle stars extinguished by a hidden blade\'s trace.
Where is Rabindranath, the sun\'s bard, we cry?
His words, a spring eternal, a dream-drunken tide.
A faint echo, a melody from afar,
\"My Golden Bengal, I love thee,\" it sighs.
But the song dissipates, smoke in the air,
the flute\'s magic lost, the heavens no longer reply.
In this swirling sandstorm, a desperate plea,
Rabindranath, return that melody,
wash these shores with Bengal\'s eternal dream, set us free.