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ÁMÁR E PHÚLVANE SAḾGOPANE,
KE GO ELE ÁJ
KISHALAY PEYE NILAY
MAN RÁUNGÁLO BHULE SAKAL LÁJ,
KE GO ELE ÁJ
BULBULI GÁY SHÁKHÁY BASE
ÁMRA MUKUL GANDHE HÁSE
ÁMRA MUKUL GANDHE HÁSE
ÁMRA MUKUL GANDHE HÁSE
ÁÁ
ÁMRA MUKUL GANDHE HÁSE
KINSHUKER RÚP NABHE BHÁSE
SÁJIYE NOTUN SÁJ,
KE GO ELE ÁJ
ÁKUL BAKUL DHULÁY JHARE
SHÁLMALI CÁY SPARDHÁ BHARE
SHÁLMALI CÁY SPARDHÁ BHARE
SHÁLMALI CÁY SPARDHÁ BHARE
ÁÁ
SHÁLMALI CÁY SPARDHÁ BHARE
PÁRUL TÁKÁY URDHVA SHIRE
KÁMPIYE KANAK TÁJ,
KE GO ELE ÁJ
Who has secretly come today
into my floral garden?
The tender leaf found an abode.
My mind is coloured and forgetts all its works.
The bulbul bird sings, perched on the branch of a tree.
The mango buds smile in the fragrance that they diffuse.
In a new decoration,
the red beauty of kinshuk flowers shines in the sky.
The distressed bakul flowers
have dropped onto the ground.
The silk cotton tree is defiant.
The trumpet flower, parul,
looks overhead, shaking its golden crown.
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