March has arrived at people’s furious howl and bawl.
The country rises in protests, and so do all her people,
Since March knocks at the doors of all the homes of Bengal.
March has arrived at thousand rivers, at their whirling currents,
Riding on boats and canoes, seated on folkloric shampans,
Along the river-banks of the Padma, Meghna and Jamuna,
March arrives in the hymn of eternal freedom, sung by swans.
My address is my countryside, along my rivers and my brooks,
My forefathers are Bangalis, living on fragrant rice and fish,
Yet my body, with dark greenish appearance, is full of anger,
Which is why March has arrived with ruthless hits and kicks.
March has arrived with the defying sticks in all their hands,
With the sun glowing on their flag, on its colors green and red,
Each of them holds a new pennon of their soul and existence,
March has arrived with millions of people, in anger and hatred.
March has arrived at the Race Course Maidan on this very day,
People are millions; why do you fear then; Comrades, wake up;
The shepherd king Mujib summons you all, do secure your way,
O mother mine, the flag of our freedom flutters on the sky above.
March has arrived, March has arrived, in the name of Mujib.
The language of March is the forefinger of his undying valor,
With chants of freedom the sea of crowds does always heave,
‘Joy Bangla’: with this slogan reverberate the sky and the air.
They thought that killing was the end of everything, they fool!
And then the Pak army came down in indiscriminate genocide,
Soaked in the blood of millions of martyrs like Rumi and Nazrul,
March has arrived with war weapons in hands from far and wide.
This March means nothing less than our freedom and liberty,
This March means nothing but the victorious songs of Bengal.
O my mother country, gifted with your courage and struggle
We are all valorous children of March; yes, we are all.
Translation: Mohammad Nurul Huda
