MOR MADHUMÁS
MOR MADHUMÁS
MOR MADHUMÁS CALE JÁY
ÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁ
KISHALAY PATRA HOLO
PATRA PARŃA HOYE
DHULÁY NIHSHEŚE MISHÁY
MOR MADHUMÁS CALE JÁY
KOYEL ESE CHILO
ÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁ
KOYEL ESE CHILO
GÁNE VÁN D́EKE CHILO
NIDÁGHER ÁGAMANE
SE DHÁRÁ KOTHÁ HÁRÁY
MOR MADHUMÁS CALE JÁY
VÁTÁSE SUDHÁ CHILO
ÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁÁ
VÁTÁSE SUDHÁ CHILO
ÁKÁSHE SUDHÁNSHU CHILO
PRÁVIT́ER GHAN MEGHE
TÁDER D́HÁKIYÁ DEY
MOR MADHUMÁS CALE JÁY
My sweet spring season is coming to an end.
Tender leaves matured.
Green leaves became yellow.
They eventually withered away,
completely merging with the dust.
The cuckoo used to call amidst a flood of songs.
With the arrival of the summer sun
where did that flow vanish?
There used to be sweetness in the air,
and a moon in the sky,
but the dense, rain bearing clouds now cover all.