On The Fall Of Dhaka Poem by Muhammad Shanazar

When we all were small girls and boys,
And played with dolls, and ball like toys,
Were often asked to drift and lead the cattle;
To the nearby meadows, farms and forest,
To have them grazed from morn to eve,
And freshened them with the water clean.

We the little masters of cows, goats and sheep,
Letting them loose sat on top of the mound,
Among the old reverend shepherds,
Who told us the tales of olden times;
Ups and downs of the world they had seen,
How they fought the World War Second,
How they did see the roaring fighter jets;
How the rumbling sounds of the shells,
Did resound and reverberate in the valleys,
How they did watch meadows, fields and farms,
Littered with the human blood flesh and shreds,
How the two shining glaring cities of Japan,
Were obliterated casting perpetual horror.

One day as we sat in the sunshine of December,
Among us someone broke the depressing news,
That our one hundred thousand sons of the land,
Spotting, smudging, smearing the whole history,
Surrendered themselves throwing the weapons.

We the little masters of cows, goats and sheep,
Sat sad and silence prevailed wrapping us all,
As in the days of frost often fog envelops,
The visible objects and blurs the beauties,
The waves of rage and wrath formed and broke,
Emerged and submerged in the ocean of heart,
Then someone of us set a bush on fire,
We all then ran, made the torches of the sticks,
And soon the whole forest was on fire,
We all wished the entire world be burnt,
For we had lost our dear Dhaka.