Where the Ayeyarwady winds its way,
Through the velvet mist of a tropic day.
The morning wakes with a saffron glow,
As the bells of the temples swing soft and slow.
In the plains of Bagan, a forest of stone,
Where two thousand spires stand proud and alone.
Each brick is a prayer, each carving a dream,
Reflected in gold by the river's bright gleam.
The Shwedagon rises, a mountain of light,
To guide the weary through the velvet of night.
With diamonds that sparkle and rubies that fire,
The soul of a nation in every high spire.
Up in the mountains, the Inle Lake lies,
Mirroring clouds in the clear highland skies.
Where fishermen balance with grace on an oar,
And floating gardens drift close to the shore.
The teak forests whisper of secrets and old,
While the hills of the Shan turn to purple and gold.
From the silver beaches of Ngapali's sand,
To the rugged peaks of a northern land.
A silence so holy, a beauty so deep,
In the cradle of nature where centuries sleep.
With a lotus in hand and a spirit so grand,
The magic remains in the Golden Land.