Kolkata, the city of dreams,

You will soon tell the tale,

Of the rise of an ordinary man into a hero,

Only to fall, in a land that punishes its heroes.

Today, you burnt with rage and fear,

As brothers fought each other,

And destroyed what was right,

While banishing Musafir, into the night.

As the skies burst open, shedding copious tears over the death of justice,

I saw her curled up in grief,

Wondering if she would ever read,

Those words that had stirred many a soul.

O Tilottama, if only I could tell you,

What the future holds for our beloved city and you,

Grieve not dear girl over what you have lost,

It is a part of the goddesses plan, to guide lost heroes to their hearth.

The Prodigal son will return, to rescue his land,

To finish what he started and do what is right.

And it will not be long,

Before fallen heroes rise.