In the heart of the Port, where the sea breezes blow,
The fires of the Mezban begin to glow.
A tradition of ages, of a welcoming hand,
The hospitality deep of our ancient land.
But when the night falls and the Orosh is near,
The scent of the Akhni is all that you hear.
A pot made of copper, a fire of wood,
Creating a magic that is understood.
The Chinigura rice, as white as the snow,
In a river of ghee, it begins to glow.
With cubes of soft beef and a marrow of bone,
A flavor so royal, it sits on a throne.
The "Kalo Bhuna" dark, with its spices so deep,
A secret the chefs of the city still keep.
With green chilies biting and fried onions sweet,
The joy of the feast is finally complete.
No spoon and no fork can capture the grace,
Of a hand-mixed morsel in this sacred place.
The steam hits the face like a warm, spicy cloud,
In the city of hills, where the people are proud.
From Laldighi's crowd to the Chawkbazar street,
Every corner has something delicious and sweet.
But the Akhni's aroma, so rich and so grand,
Is the true "Golden Ticket" of our beautiful land.