CHOT́T́A PÁKHI BULBULI
GUL BÁGICÁY KISER ÁSHÁY
GÁN GÁO KÁR SUR TULI
CHOT́T́A PÁKHI BULBULI
BHÁVANÁ CINTÁ NEIKO TOMÁR
ÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁ
BHÁVANÁ CINTÁ NEIKO TOMÁR
ÁCHE BÁSÁ ÁCHE ÁKÁSHA APÁR
GÁN GEYE ÁR SHIS DIYE JÁO
VYATHÁR BOJHÁ SAB BHÚLI
CHOT́T́A PÁKHI BULBULI
GOLÁP BHÁLOBÁSE TOMÁY
ÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁ
GOLÁP BHÁLOBÁSE TOMÁY
PÁPAŔI HESE HESE TÁKÁY
MADHU REŃUMÁTÁY TANU
UPCE RAḾGIIN DIN GULI
CHOT́T́A PÁKHI BULBULI
O little bird, O nightingale,
in the floral garden,
in whose hope,
do you sing your song with a pitch raised so high?
You have no worry or thought.
You have a shelter
and an unlimited sky to fly.
You keep singing and whistling,
forgetting all loads of pains.
The rose loves you.
Its petals smilingly look at you.
And its sweet pollen intoxicate your body
as colourful days rise.