A silver serpent through the emerald sea,
Of paddy fields and shadows of the tree.
The distant whistle through the morning haze,
Awakening the village from its sleepy daze.
From Chattogram's hills to the Padma's wide shore,
It carries the dreams and the travelers' lore.
The rhythmic "jhika-jhik" on the iron track,
A journey ahead with no looking back.
The tea-seller's cry and the bustling crowd,
The steam and the smoke like a transient cloud.
People on benches and some on the floor,
Sharing their stories by the open door.
Beyond the window, the rivers glide by,
Under the arch of a monsoon sky.
The golden jute and the waving cane,
Seen through the glass of a moving train.
A bridge of iron that shudders and roars,
As the mighty Meghna beneath it pours.
Connecting the hearts of the North and the South,
From the mountain peak to the river's mouth.
It isn't just metal, it isn't just pride,
It's the soul of the nation on a rhythmic ride.
The "Subarna" or "Turna," in the dark of the night,
Guiding us home by a yellow headlight.