Shamsur Rahman
Liberty, you are my mother’s white sari
fluttering in the breeze in the yard.
Liberty, you are the red color of mehdi
on the tender palm of my sister.
Liberty, you are the flaming poster
in my friend’s hand.
Liberty, you are the thick black
loose hair of my wife
flowing in the wind.
Liberty, you are the colored shirt
on my son.
the play of sunlight on
my daughter’s cheek.
Liberty, you are my garden,
the song of the cuckoo,
the rustling leaves
of an ancient banyan tree,
the note book where I write my verses
just as I choose.
