In the heart of the Port, where the sun burns bright,
The drums begin thumping with a rhythmic might.
The Laldighi Maidan starts to wake and roar,
As the crowd gathers round by the thousand and more.
From the hills and the coast, the giants descend,
To a battle of strength where the spirits don't bend.
In the heat of the summer, the Baishakhi air,
The Boli Khela starts with a pride and a flare.
No armor of steel and no weapons of old,
Just muscles of iron and a heart that is bold.
The smell of the earth and the sweat on the skin,
As the circle is drawn and the wrestlers step in.
With a grip like a mountain, they struggle and strain,
Ignoring the gravity, the heat, and the pain.
A legacy born from the struggle and fight,
To keep the Bengali spirit burning and bright.
From the days of the British, the legend was sown,
By Abdul Jabbar, for the seeds he had grown.
To show that the sons of this fertile green land,
Against any empire, would fearlessly stand.
The winner is crowned as the "Boli" of fame,
While the echoes of Chattogram carry his name.
A tradition of power, of honor, and grace,
The heartbeat of glory in our sacred place.