If I am slaughtered
All that remain of me,
My blood, my fresh, my remains
Will be Bengal,
My grief, my pain, my love, my peace
Shall belong to Bengal.
Bengal has suffered intensely
And yet despite her suffering
In her literature
And in her songs
Is the anguish of her language:
This is the suffering we share.
We respect the memories of
Shakespeare, Dante, and Tolstoi
But in the blood of my heart
Remains Tagore.
All the time
When I eat, sleep or am awake,
Amidst solitude, amidst people,
A song echoes within my heart
In the language of Tagore.
This language rescues
my heart
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