On the dancing breast of the Karnaphuli tide,
Where the salt-kissed winds and the waters collide.
The Sampan floats like a crescent of wood,
Where the ghosts of the ancient mariners stood.
With a curved-up bow and a slender frame,
It carries no engine, it seeks no fame.
Just the rhythmic pull of a single oar,
As it glides from the dock to the distant shore.
The boatman sings a Bhatiali strain,
Of the summer's heat and the monsoon rain.
A melody born of the river's deep soul,
As the golden waves of the morning roll.
From the Chaktai docks to the river's wide mouth,
It drifts with the breeze of the cooling south.
Carrying nets and the silver of fish,
Or a lover's secret and a silent wish.
It braves the currents and the swirling foam,
The humble vessel that calls the river home.
Against the backdrop of the giant ships' glare,
The Sampan remains with a graceful flare.
A silhouette black in the sunset's red glow,
Watching the tides of the centuries flow.
The heartbeat of Chattogram, simple and free,
A bridge between the river and the great blue sea.