On the Mother Language Day

A flower that smells of pure bliss keeps an observance to the ground It's a serene one sitting beneath the stars down on earth The moon, far, far, seven swell down, loves to drop into her stage. The Bay of Bengal waves, music has gotten beneath the skin. The leaves furl out off the deep wood with the catcalls singing out to the top of the trees, sorting with the lush cotillion . Heavensent, that was in one sanguine day in the spring. The Mother’s Language Movement in 1952 picked like this on the eighth of native Falgun month — oh magic did it unleash! On that day our cherished sisters were shot dead They could swallow the pellets with grins but wo n’t give up demanding the sanctioned status for the Bangla mama lingo. Angels wrapped round the killers amid lamenting maters

Laid them on Falgun’s scented ground bleeding corses . Swell of roses bloomed and blew them out red, red kisses! They're gone not the gravestone wall of knowledge they raised Ah, at the sow of the spring what were they echoing? hardwired deep in the soil thepre-designing voice in the planning? Who can tell? The world gels on February 21 in celebrating! The angels also snapped up our killers ’ souls off the land, placed them on a piece of Heaven where they can hear the jingle. Down on earth, a nation springs over, has gotten its wake up call! Stepping on the sweetening bow of the mama lingo air the gravestone turns a flower, all in a butterfly moment soaring to palm. Thanks to the movement- Bangladesh itself latterly comes to be!

The sun comes down to the rose oil on the land In the heavenly Falgun tinges it nibbles some wild summer dreams. “ Serene songs of earth stirring the water, ” like it comes into play, rowing the pall bubbles singing in southern breath. Ah, a walk on the sun kissed show land is a pure bliss. Every blossom spray of the wind is soothing sweet Hop on and play straight to the ruby heart, as if it's a flute. Mother lingo means speak free, intrepid, in full streaming.

Speak the heart to the world without the fear of losing the pall that will hear, bouncing back on the point of the sky swash. also what did one say-so, hear, or was astounded by in the blooming Falgun? Could it have been the spring humming in her native lingua or King David singing in mama lingo by prattling becks

what in any other language, indeed with a tableware lingo, is n’t possible? Allah has heeded to our killers ’ crying maters and fathers The killers ’ souls whisk through the worlds and starry fair. Soar grandly over the shadows, take the rainbow's *** of gold down, like a tinge turns 360- degree in the colourwheel lounge into the colour. still, dip the toes in Bangla mama ’s soil interspersed with scented art like Himalayan water swirling down melting deeper deep down this magicland is polished for everyone be it you, a puck, a star or off the ploughed- out barrow a walked out wonder!

A pristine voice brace’s voiceprint gleans to the spring in poet, Pops in a beauteous scurry and speaks in the mama lingo! Hidden within the earthy depth, only emerges with time, only balls in digression, that day slipped out with the butterflies. And eventually the blue nymphs take the plunge drop down the sky that day the mama ’s voice triumphed, whose is the most original!