The Colour of Freedom

We are searching out the beloved colour of freedom—

Where is the colour?

Is it in the rays of the sun, on the lips of the Royal Poinciana flowers,

Or in the arc of a rainbow?

Maybe the color of freedom rests on the wings of birds,

Or in the murmuring resonance of a river.

In the torn string of a lad’s kite,

In the twilight dance of evening- in the grains, kissed by dew,

In the footsteps of farmers returning home,

In the muscle of the worker’s sweat-soaked arms.

Or the colour of freedom seizes the day

In the school bell 

In the eternal look of awaiting mother,

In the igniting wave of a singer’s note,

In the poet’s emotional cry—

Where does the colour of freedom reside?

When morning breaks,

The sun rises,

Birds take a fly toward the horizon,

And the march for liberation approaches—

Crowds of people flood the streets.

With the sound of gunfire,

Birds and nature fall silent,

Piercing the throats of people dream comes out 

In the bunches of Silk Cotton and Palash flowers.

And, at that very moment,

Freedom unearths its colour

In the splotchy hopes of green grass,

Thus we see,

We hear,

And we believe-

The colour of freedom is of blood.

Translated by Ashraf Chowdhury