In 2009, Pilkhana’s dawn, no sun did rise,

Only blood and silence met our eyes.

No enemy stood on the other shore,
Yet fifty-seven heroes breathed no more.

Then came 2013, Shapla Square’s grim night,
Quran reciters met fate’s cruel blight.

They prayed in peace, with hearts so bright,
But vanished in smoke before the night.

Then 2024, July roared with fearless feet,
Sujood on stones, in blistering heat.

“Justice!” they cried, “O Lord, we’re thine!”
But bullets fell like rain, a sign.

What thunder rose on thirty-six July?
Bare chests stood where bullets fly.

Nahid’s call rang fierce and high—
“Crush the tyrant, do not cry!”

With him stood a hundred strong,
Coordinators who marched along—

Hasnat, Sarjis, Zara too,
Shanta, Akhtar, Nasir true.

A student tide, a fearless stream,
Rose from faith, and not from dream.

The tyrant fled beyond the gate,
To foreign soil, in fear and hate.

She left her throne, her mask, her land,
And vanished with her loyal band.

She stained the land with blood and fear,
Now looter Hasina escapes to India’s sphere.

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