KUSUM KÁNANE MAN VITÁNE
ÁVESHE PÁPIYÁ GÁY
TUMI KOTHÁY BOLO, TUMI KOTHÁY
PRÁŃERI PARASHE GIITI RABHASE
KALITE DOLÁ JÁGÁY
TUMI KOTHÁY BOLO, TUMI KOTHÁY
KISHALAYE ÁR MUKULE MILECHE
ÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁ
KISHALAYE ÁR MUKULE MILECHE
SHÁLMALI TARU PHULE BHARE GECHE
MANER GAHANE SUSMITÁNANE
SABÁI EKERE CÁY
TUMI KOTHÁY BOLO, TUMI KOTHÁY
KINSHUK VAN VARŃE HESECHE
ÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁ
KINSHUK VAN VARŃE HESECHE
CYUTA KALIKÁR GANDHA BHESECHE
KUŚT́HALE JALE ANALE ANILE
SUDHÁ DHÁRÁ BAYE JÁY
TUMI KOTHÁY BOLO, TUMI KOTHÁY
KUSUM KÁNANE MAN VITÁNE
ÁVESHE PAPIÁ GÁY
TUMI KOTHÁY BOLO, TUMI KOTHÁY
The nightingale sings with momentum
in the mental arbor of my floral garden,
“Where are You?
Tell me. Where are You?”
With the touch of vitality and the upsurge of song,
oscillations arise on the buds.
The tender leaves and buds intermingle.
The shalmali tree is full of flowers.
In the depth of their mind and with smiling faces,
all want only one.
The kimshuk grove smiles with colours.
The fragrance of fallen buds floats.
In water, air and sky the stream of nectar keeps flowing.