I am come to speak of the greatest Bangali of all time,
one whose heart harboured boundless love for man.
I have come to speak of a fearless sailor
who could steer his ship through mighty waves
of the sea in the warm heat of summer,
splintering rains and thick winter mist,
and take the ship safely ashore.
I have come to speak of a murdered Julius Caesar of our time
who had brought for his country many honours from abroad,
had again and again refused the crown
offered to him by his enemies;
Caesar had done so only thrice.
I have come to speak of that lover of language
who had addressed the UN assembly in Bangla
adding new lustre to the national visage
and took Tagore’s expectation
to its highest pitch.
I have come to speak of a lover of flowers
who had planted a bokul seedling
in the precincts of a prison
and given birth to language based country.
I have come to speak of that lover
who had brought flowers and the state together.
The branches of his bokul tree
now glow with blossoming flowers
while the arms and branches of his state
lie prostrate on the earth
brought low by the lashing of a furious storm
and the game of dice played by evil men.
The world is now running a temperature of 210 degrees.
There is no one to soothe its burning
forehead with a piece of wet cloth.
Singed by the civilized fire of George Bush the world
is screaming in pain.
Israel has crushed the strength of its knees.
Its chest-ribs have been broken by
the torture of Guantanamo.
Iraq has stolen the light of its eyes.
The massacre of students
at Virginia Tech has pierced its heart.
The blood and tears of Palestinians have
destroyed the firmness of its arms.
The world is now running a temperature of 210 degrees.
There is no one to soothe its burning
forehead with a piece of wet cloth.
Romain Rolland, Einstein, Aragon, Robert Frost,
Rabindranath─ please come out of
Heaven’s precincts, please come down to
the soil of this mortal earth.
The world is now running a temperature of 210 degrees.
There is no one to soothe its burning
forehead with a piece of wet cloth.
Einstein, snatch away your scientific
formula from the hands of the demons.
Romain Rolland, raise your voice and cry
once again, I will not rest.
Let firce protest ring out again from Aragon’s lips.
Robert Frost, say once again, I am
not asleep yet.
Rabindranath, once again
give the call to all to get ready
everywhere to fight the demons of this world.
Let us all listen to Schiller’s
poem “Embrace Mankind”. Let a million
pianos and violins chant the tune of
Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.
Wake up, militant breakers of window bars.
Rise again, liberator Lenin.
The world is now running a temperature of 210 degrees.
There is no one to soothe its burning
forehead with a piece of wet cloth.
Walt Whitman, won’t you sing again
the Song of Humanism? Pablo Neruda, let us
hear again your inspiring poetry; please urge
Peace to descend again like drops of
winter dew on the green leaves of grass.
Let Peace descend on the graves of the
thirty young men and young women of
Virginia Tech. Let Peace reign in every home
of this world.
The world is now running a temperature of 210 degrees.
There is no one to soothe its burning
forehead with a piece of wet cloth.
Come, Lord Sri Krishna, Counsellor in a just war.
Come, Lord Tathagato,
the preacher of nonviolence’s immortal message.
Come, noble Jesus, lighting the lamp of
Life with the celestial fire.
Come, Desert Sun, beloved Muhammad,
come with the banner of Peace and Equality.
Come, Mahatma Gandhi, spread once again
throughout the world the message of
ahimsa and satyagraha.
Come, Abraham Lincoln,
honoured all over the world,
come with the flag of Democracy
held aloft in your hand.
Arise, Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman,
the greatest Bengalee in a thousand years,
come out of your grave in
Tungipara, take your stand at the
Suhrawardy Garden and cry once again
in your thundering voice, The struggle
this time is the struggle for freedom,
the struggle this time is the struggle
for independence.
The world is now running a temperature of 210 degrees.
There is no one to soothe its burning
forehead with a piece of wet cloth.
Will the world die like this,
singed by intolerable flames?
O, noble men of humanity, arise
again, build the world in its own grandeur
with its dignity of centuries of
old civilizations.
O, inheritors of the ancient
civilization of Mohenjedaro, China, Greece,
Rome, Egypt, Persia and Babylon─
Arise!<
Wake up, militant breakers of window bars.
Like Goetthe I give the call :
Build a new world with the graciousness
of your heart, a world nobler than the earlier one.
Wake up, militant breakers of window bars.
Translated by Kabir ChowdhuryI have not come, where they laid down their lives
under the upward looking Krishnachura trees,
to shed tears.
I have not come, where endless patches of blood
glow like so many fiery flowers, to weep.
Today I an not overwhelmed by grief,
Today I am not maddened with anger,
Today I am only unflinching
in my determination.
The child who will never more get a chance
to rush into his father’s arms,
the housewife who, shielding the lamp
with her sari, will never more wait
by the door for her husband,
the mother who will never more draw
to her breast with boundless joy
her returning son,
the young man who, before collapsing
on the earth, tried again and again
to conjure before his eyes the vision
of his beloved,
in their name,
in the name of those brothers and sisters,
in the name of my language,
nourished by the heritage of a thousand years,
in the name of the language in which
I am accustomed to addressing my mother,
in the name of my native land,
I say, I have come today,
here on the open grounds of the university,
to demand their death by hanging,
the death of those who killed
my brothers and sisters indiscriminately.
I have not come here to weep for them
who gave their lives under Ramna’s
sun-scorched krishnachura treses
for their language,
Those forty or more who laid down their lives
for Bangla, their mother tongue,
for the dignity of a country’s great culture,
for the literary heritage of Alaol,
Rabindranath, Kaikobad and Nazrul,
for keeping alive the bhatiali, baul,
kirtan and the ghazal,
those who laid down their lives
for Nazrul’s unforgettable lines:
“The soil of my native land
is purer than the purest gold.”
Forty blooming lives fell
like innumerable Krishnachura petals
on Ramna’s soil.
In the husks of the seeds
sprouting therefrom I can see
endless drops of blood,
the blood of young Rameswar and Abdus Salam,
the blood of the most brilliant boys of the university.
I can see each drop of blood
shining on Ramna’s green grass like burning flames,
each boy a piece of diamond,
forty jewels of the university,
who, had they lived, would have become
the most precious wealth of the country, in whom
Lincoln, Rolland, Aragon and Einstein had found refuge,
in whom had flourished some of the
most progressive ideals of this century’s civilization.
We have not come here to shed tears
where forty jewels sacrificed their lives.
We have not come, either, to plead
for our language to the killers
who had arrived with their rifles loaded,
with orders to shoot our brothers and sisters.
We have come to demand the hanging
of the tyrants and the murderers.
We know that our brothers and sisters were killed,
that they were mercilessly shot,
that one of them was perhaps called ‘Osman’
just like you,
that perhaps one of them had a clerk for his father
just like you, or that one’s father was growing
golden crops in some remote village of East Bengal,
or was a government functionary.
Today those boys could be living just like you or me.
Perhaps one of them had his wedding day fixed
just like me.
Perhaps one of them had left on his table,
just like you, his mother’s letter
received a moment ago,
hoping to read it when he got back
from the procession he went out to join.
Those boys had harboured concrete dreams
in their breasts,
and they were killed by the bullets
of the cruel tyrants.
In the name of those who wanted
to banish our mother tongue be hanged.
I demand that those who ordered
the killing be hanged.
I demand that the traitors
who climbed to the seats of power
over the dead bodies of my brothers and
sisters be hanged.
I want to see them tried and shot
as convicted criminals
on that very spot in this open field.
Those first martyrs of the country,
those forty brilliant boys of the university,
each of them had dreams of building
a quiet home in the bosom of this earth
with his wife, children and parents.
They dreamed of analysing
the scientific theories of Einstein with greater depth,
they dreamed of finding ways
to put atomic power to man’s service
in the cause of peace.
They dreamed of writing a poem
more beautiful than Tagore’s “The Flute Players”.
O, my martyred brothers,
the spot where you laid down your lives
will continue to glow
even after a thousand years.
No footprints of civilization can wipe out
the marks of your blood from that soil,
although procession after procession
will one day converge here
and shatter its vague silence.
The tolling of the university bells
will daily announce the historic hour of your deaths,
even if one day a violent storm
erupts and shakes the building’s very foundation.
Whatever comes to pass
the brightness of your names as hallowed martyrs
will never grow dim.
The cruel hands of the murderers
can never throttle your long cherished hopes.
Some day we shall surely win
and hail the advent of justice and fair play.
O, my dead brothers,
on that day, your voices,
the strong voice of freedom,
will soar from the depths of silence.
The people of my country, on that day,
will surely hang from the gallows
those tyrants and murderers.
On that day, your hopes will shine like flames
in the joy of victory and sweet vengeance.
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