Hemante mor phuler sáji bharbe go
Bharbe tomár práńer choṋyáte
Phulerá sab jácche sare
Avaheláy anádare
Tári májhe járá áche
Rauṋiin pośák parbe go
Parbe tomár práńer choṋyáte
Nám ná jáná gácher pare
Pákhiirá sab chot́t́a niiŕe
Tomár námi ápan mane karbe go
Karbe tomár práńer choṋyáte
Tomár mane ámi áchi
Rauṋete rauṋ mishiyechi
Tomár sure sur miliye
Sudháy jhare paŕbe go
Paŕbe tomár práńer choṋyáte
In prewinter, oh my flower-tray, it will be full;
It will be full of Your vital touch.
All the flowers are withdrawing
From neglect, from inattention.
Among them there are some
Who will wear colored garments...
They will dress in Your vital touch.
Upon the trees, names unknown,
The birds all in tiny abodes,
They'll deem Your name as their own,
They'll think so by Your vital touch.
In Your mind do I exist...
I've made my hue mingle with Yours;
In Your tune, my tune is mixed...
Oh it will exude nectar;
It will drip with Your vital touch.
