When the morning mist drapes the golden field,
And the earth provides its wintry yield.
The hearth is lit with a crackling flame,
To start a festival of ancient name.
The scent of Khejur Gur fills the air,
A sweetness floating everywhere.
The rhythmic sound of the husking grain,
A winter melody in a joyful strain.
The Bhapee Pitha rises in a cloud of white,
Steamed with coconut in the early light.
Soft and snowy, with a heart of gold,
A story of warmth in the bitter cold.
The Chitoi waits for the spicy dip,
Or the milky nectar where it loves to slip.
Pati Shapta rolled with a creamy grace,
Bringing a smile to every child's face.
From the Pulii's curve to the Dudher Shor,
The neighbors gather at the open door.
A celebration of the harvest and the hand,
Across the reaches of our beautiful land.
It isn't just flour or the syrup's glow,
But the love of a mother that continues to flow.
A circle of warmth in the winter's bite,
Under the glow of a festival light.