Ey Syloti tui ki koros by Shihab
They chant a borrowed anthem, but their mother tongue is buried alive.
Ey Syloti tui ki koros,
Bollo Amar 14 bongshor Syloti Bhai
Taar baaf dada xoiboror mazey xandra
Tarar fua ze Kita mathey re Bhai
Syloti Gaan hunia ashra boinan
Ze funny lager, xoira Tara
Amar Shonar Bangla xoithey xoithey
Tara aar mathey na tarar zifrar bail
Xawwa kunchonfara ditey giya nizer fara buligese
Fara oxhol abadi hunia Asher loyaa
O Syloti Bhai buliona tumar maath
Syloti loyya aashray aar xandey tumar leu re Bhai.
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Oh Syloti, what are you doing—speaking Bengali?
So asks my brother, the son of fourteen generations.
His father and grandfather weep beneath the earth,
Listening to a voice they no longer recognize.
Sisters giggle at Syloti songs,
Mocking melodies that once raised villages.
“So funny,” they say,
While chanting Amar Shonar Bangla
In borrowed tones,
Forsaking the rhythm of their own tongue.
The crow once danced in steps of pride—
Now it stumbles, forgetting how to walk.
The settlers on the block cackle with delight,
As if forgetting is fashionable.
Oh Syloti, don’t lose your maath,
The soul in your speech,
The warmth in your words.
You laugh at your language,
But your people—we are weeping.