HE MOR VARAŚÁ TUMII BHAROSÁ
KRPÁVÁRI D́HÁLO
DHÁN SHUKHÁY JÁY
ÁKÁSHE MEGH T́ÁNO
JOŔETE VEGA ÁNO
HAŔAKÁ JENO NECE DHÁY
DHÁN SHUKHÁY JÁY
ÁTÁR PHUL DÚRE BHUTALE ÁCHE PAŔE
ÁNJIIR KALI PAŔE JHARE JHARE
KENDU PÁTÁ PUŔE AKÁLE JÁY MARE
MAHUL KACAŔÁ SHUKÁY
DHÁN SHUKHÁY JÁY
E BÁR JALA ÁNO
O GO DAYAL PRABHU
MODER KATHÁ SHONO
NIDAY NÁ HOYO? KABHU
DUHKHA SABAI JÁNO
MORÁ JÁNÁI TABU
AKÁLA ÁSATE JENO NÁ PÁY
DHÁN SHUKHÁY JÁY
HE MOR VARAŚÁ TUMII BHAROSÁ
KRPÁVÁRI D́HÁLO
DHÁN SHUKHÁY JÁY
O My rain, You are the only hope, pour the water of grace, the paddy is getting dried.
Pull clouds in the sky, bring flow of current in the river, so that flood rushes dancing.
The flower of a’ta’, is lying far on the ground. The buds of a’njiir drop withered.
The kendu leaves untimely die out. The buds of mahul dry up. I The Kind Lord, bring water
this time, listen to my story, never become merciless. Though You know sorrows of all, yet
I tell You, so that famine does not come.